


In Closets, Hidden

by shadowed_sunsets



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, John and Sherlock epic friendship, John's friends protect him, casefic kinda, typical Sherlock language and violence, typical Sherlock violence, warnings: mention of drugs and overdose, when the past comes back to bite you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowed_sunsets/pseuds/shadowed_sunsets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the part of your past you've tried years to forget about suddenly decides to come back to haunt you and come after you, your sister, and your friends, it's always nice to have a consulting detective as a friend/flat mate. A Detective Inspector and the embodiment of the British Government doesn't hurt either.</p>
<p>written for xenadragon_xoxo for the 2013 sherlockmas exchange</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xenadragon_xoxo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenadragon_xoxo/gifts).



> Thanks goes to my friend KP for letting me babble and rant about this, and for brainstorming with me. Thanks to xenadragon for the wonderful prompts! And for the lovely people at Sherlockmas, I had a great experience.
> 
> I hope everyone here enjoys this as well. I had a fun time writing this even though it kind of got away from me.  
> But I'm proud of it.
> 
> Any feedback welcome :)
> 
> (apologies for any americanisms or other mistakes)

1.  
  
It was always during the slow times when they were in between cases and Sherlock threatened to shoot the walls so John had to keep hiding the gun from him every few days that John found himself wishing for  _something_ exciting to happen. Not necessarily even a case, just something that would grasp and hold both of their attention. For a few days.  
  
Looking back, his almost desperate need for a distraction was probably how Harry managed to convince him to go over to hers and help her pack up her things. Her tearful call interspersed with faux pathetic sniffling had also helped.  
  
He'd known she was having trouble since her divorce papers with Clara came through. So far Harry had managed to stay away from the bottle, so John saw it as part of his duty as her brother to help her continue staying sober no matter how awful the temptation became.  
  
That was why he was now on his way to Harry's in the middle of the day, leaving behind a sulking Sherlock on the sofa. He'd tried telling his moody flat mate where he was going, but the man had refused to give any sign he was listening... or not listening. John was almost sure Sherlock  _hadn't_  heard given how the man never seemed to notice he was gone. Which probably meant he would get a text from Sherlock sooner than later asking where he was; or when he went back to Baker Street Sherlock would act like John had never been gone at all.  
  
When he arrived at the new flat Harry had moved into after Clara left, his sister greeted him at the door with puffy, bloodshot eyes; but he was glad to not smell any alcohol on her breath. John didn't mention it and as soon as he was across the threshold Harry pulled him in for a hug with her arms tight around his waist. In return John somewhat awkwardly patted her back twice then let her go when Harry pulled away.  
  
He followed her inside and up the creaky wooden stairs to the second level. He'd never been up here before, and once Harry pushed open the door to the storage room/attic space John was glad of it. As children Harry's room had always looked like it'd recently been hit by a tornado, whereas John's was typically fairly neat. And it seemed the tendency had carried over into Harry's adulthood.  
  
The room wasn't very large, only a few paces wide and maybe half again that long; but nearly every available floor space was occupied by cardboard boxes. Near the walls the boxes were stacked two or three high and they nearly covered the window at the far end, allowing only a pale, thin beam of light into the room.  
  
John took a cautious step down the barely inches wide path between the boxes left for anyone brave enough to venture further. He took another step then stopped, looked around at all the boxes within reach- they didn't appear to be labeled at all- then turned back to face Harry. Even before he could make any comment she leveled a glare at him, warning him off actually saying anything. The way she had her arms wrapped around herself made him feel unsettled and… guilty. He was here to help, not chide.  
  
John licked his lips and turned his attention back to the boxes. Kneeling down John reached for the box closest to his feet and pulled the top off, stirring up small clouds of dust. After a few seconds, out of the corner of his eye John saw Harry bend down and open the box closest to her.  
  
Together they managed to get through more than half of the boxes before the light started to dim and it grew dark in the cramped room. John finished packing up the last box he had finished and slid the lid back on. After what they had gone through so far Harry had four boxes of things she wanted to save, and a pile precariously set off to the side of things she'd said she didn't want. He was silently surprised there wasn't more Harry wanted to keep; she was usually more a one for sentimental keepsakes.  
  
John pushed the box away from him and wiped his hands on his jeans. It was good they had finished so much in however long they'd been working. Harry needed this divorce behind her without the constant reminders of Clara, and now the process wouldn't be needlessly drawn out over multiple days. They could be surprisingly productive when they decided to work together.  
  
Realizing his sister had been silent a long time, John looked over to check on Harry. She had a box open on the floor in front of her and was holding a thin pile of papers in her hand that looked faded and somewhat wrinkled, like they'd been put away in the box for years and hadn't been glanced at since.  
  
John moved closer to her and tilted his head so he could see the papers she was holding better. Then he saw the faded once black-and-white but now grey photograph and the headline in large text declaring ‘Local Childrens' Games End in Arrest of Crime Ring'... and froze.  
  
John licked his lips, shifting a little on the cold floor; then he asked, surprised his voice was as steady as it was, "Harry, why did you keep that? Why would you even save it, you were the one who-"  
  
"I forgot it was in here," Harry snapped irritably, the fingers of her hand curling around the edge of the box. "It's not something I'd keep because I wanted to. I've tried to forget as much as you have!"  
  
She tossed the papers back into the box as if they'd burnt her fingers while she'd been holding them.  
  
John quickly placed the lid on the box and put a hand on top of it as if that would keep it closed. "I never said I wanted to forget; Mum was the one who made us move away."  
  
He could almost hear her rolling her eyes. "It was to protect us Johnny. Who knows what would've happened if we'd stayed."  
  
John pushed himself to his feet and dusted off his jeans. "We don't know what happened to the people we left behind, Harry. Think about that."  
  
Not wanting to hear her response John turned and walked back through the path of boxes and out of the room all together. He didn't want to think about that part of his life anymore today. If Harry wanted help moving the boxes tomorrow she could call him then. For the rest of the night he just wanted to feast on takeaway and watch bad telly. Even if he had to put up with Sherlock's scathing commentary.  
  
~~~  
  
Sherlock pulled his attention away from his experiment at the kitchen table when he heard the sound of takeaway bags rustling in John's hand. John shifted them to open the door, and given how his footsteps were uneven, mimicking his old psychosomatic limp, John was upset.  
  
Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as John trudged into the kitchen, coming over to the table. John's lips were pressed together and his jaw set, more evidence of just how upset he was. After a glance at the bags John set on the table Sherlock inhaled. "Chinese?"  
  
The side of John's mouth twitched upward. "Our usual," he confirmed. John walked over to the cupboards and took down plates and mugs that he'd just washed that morning. "Are you almost finished with that?"  
  
Sherlock looked down, considering the results of his experiment so far. "It can wait," he announced, straightening. As John pulled out the few clean pieces of silverware they had, Sherlock pushed the experiment off to the side and slid off his safety glasses. The experiment wasn't for a case or time-sensitive, so it wouldn't matter if he spent the night with John eating takeaway and whichever idiotic program John settled on. Sherlock was certain he would be able to improve John's mood with his usual commentary; even if they watched one of those ridiculous spy films.  
  
~~  
  
The next morning John was sitting at the table with his usual breakfast of tea and toast (without mold or experiment-tainted jam), while Sherlock checked his website for anything resembling a case. He'd been at it for nearly an hour but still hadn't found anything that even exceeded a one on his scale. And John was just sitting there opposite him calmly reading the paper and sipping that tea he loved so much, completely unconcerned.  
  
"Morning boys," Mrs. Hudson called as she knocked on the door to the kitchen. "Its good to see you're up and about already. It's a lovely day outside, you can actually see the sun for once."  
  
She slowly shuffled into the room- her hip must be bothering her again- and started bustling around, picking up papers and stacking dishes. It was the same routine each time Mrs. Hudson came upstairs, no matter how often she protested she wasn't their housekeeper. Mrs. Hudson liked to check up on them every so often. Sometimes Sherlock wondered just what she thought was going to happen to them.  
  
"Really Sherlock, you need to clean up more in here. Can't have you two living in a mess." Mrs. Hudson fussed, setting the dirty dishes in the sink.  
  
She turned around from the sink to address John. "Oh, John, there was a box with your name out on the steps this morning. I brought it inside but left it in the entry. If you want to get it…"  
  
John set his mug down with a loud thunk against the wooden surface of the table. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson," he replied, letting the paper fall to the table. "I'll go get it now, take it off your hands."  
  
Mrs. Hudson walked closer to the table as John pushed his chair back. "Oh you don't have to now, I don't want to interrupt your breakfast…" She trailed off into a soft "oh" as John walked out the doorway. A few seconds later his footsteps could be heard on the stairs.  
  
Mrs. Hudson sighed quietly then glanced over at Sherlock. "I guess he was expecting something." She moved to stand next to the chair Sherlock was occupying. "He's good for you, you know," Mrs. Hudson told him quietly. "So don't do anything to drive him away, Sherlock. You two are so good together."  
  
Sherlock worked very hard not to turn his head even the slightest to look at her. "That isn't my decision to make, Mrs. Hudson."  
  
"Sherlock," she scolded the way she did when she didn't think he was listening. He still refused to turn and meet her eyes.  
  
Sherlock only raised his head when he heard John's distinctive voice from the bottom of the steps. John cursed sometimes out of habit still, but would catch himself. This time he stopped and was quiet for several seconds; likely while he thought about whatever was in the box.  
  
Finally John came to a decision, he didn't want to linger on what he'd seen, and started back up the stairs. Now he was carrying the box John's steps were slower and heavier on each stair.  
  
Sherlock carefully watched the doorway, expecting John to come back in carrying the box. He hoped John would share the contents with him now Sherlock's curiosity was piqued. But John's footsteps didn't stop or even pause on the landing outside. They continued up to John's bedroom, soon followed by the sound of John's door slamming.  
  
When John didn't come back down after enough time it was obvious he wouldn't reappear any time soon, Sherlock returned to the experiment he'd been working on. He needed time to decide if what had upset John yesterday involved this mysterious box or if the two were separate incidents and the first had only been because of his sister.  
  
By the time John finally came downstairs again, Sherlock had finished and put away his disappointing experiment. Once he finished Mrs. Hudson coaxed him into drinking a mug of tea and put a piece of toast in his hand. Now she was watching him closely from the other chair at the table as he slowly ate and drank.  
  
John stepped into the room, the lines around his eyes even more pronounced than usual. He wasn't smiling like John usually smiled; this was John trying to pretend everything was normal and fine.  
  
"So," John spoke first after they all looked at each other. "Did you find anything interesting for us to look into, or is it another day of experiments and film marathons?"  
  
Obviously John wasn't going to tell them. Not on his own. Well that was fine, Sherlock was an expert at bringing secrets to light. John would tell him in time; hopefully before too long.  
  
For now… "Preferably more experiments than bad telly and films." Sherlock rejoined before he quickly finished off the rest of his nearly cooled tea. He stood up and started fixing John a fresh, hot cup of tea.  
  
  
2.  
  
The mystery of John's box pestered Sherlock off and on for the next days. He wanted to know what was inside that upset John, it nagged at him, but Sherlock didn't want to distress John even more. An upset John was dangerous; and Sherlock didn't want to force John into leaving.  
  
Before Sherlock could give in to his need to puzzle out and know exactly what had happened, Moriarty revealed himself and forced Sherlock into a game of puzzles with ‘pips' and hostages in bomber vests and finally, a pool. An arena full of shadows and a confrontation where he saw what he could have become if he'd never given up the drugs and the accompanying rush, or if he hadn't begun working with the police and turned his mind to better purposes, and had never met John. Moriarty was brilliant, true; but he was also dangerous. And of the two, Sherlock would rather have John.  
  
After the pool, when they were back at Baker Street and more or less safe, Sherlock rethought his decision to stay quiet and try to ignore whatever had upset John. And the mystery of the box from his sisters. How could he keep John safe, and not just from Moriarty, when he didn't know everything that had the potential to, or did distress, John?  
  
That was why one day while John was away at the locum where he ‘worked,' Sherlock went up to John's room and searched for the box. Whatever secrets it held, Sherlock knew he could handle anything.  _This_  was within his abilities. He simply needed to know what was inside to know what he need to do.  
  
The cupboard box was hidden at the very back of John's closet, amongst the nearly military precision of lined up shoes and clothes hanging on hangers. Some habits John found difficult to break it appeared. Hiding the box under his bed was the more obvious choice as a hiding place, but John would expect him to look there first. At least this way John made it somewhat difficult for him. But he did need to work on his hiding skills.  
  
Sherlock lifted the box from the back of the closet and set it on the floor in front of him. The tape was easily disposed of, allowing Sherlock to easily lift off the top.  
  
Inside was a stack of papers, newspapers mostly he noticed, along with several photographs. Sherlock set the papers aside and looked at the photographs first.  
  
On top was a black and white photograph of a group of children, three boys roughly of twelve years of age and a girl of ten. The two boys on the left had their arms around each others shoulders in a close, friendly way and wide, triumphant grins spread across their dirt smeared faces. Standing close, but not comfortably so, was another boy staring defiantly out of the picture with a determined look on his face. Both of his hands were clutching the shoulders of the girl standing in front of him, holding onto her as she glared out at the camera. Their features were similar enough, as was the defiance, that it was easy to identify them as siblings. And upon closer examination the boy was so obviously a younger John that Sherlock berated himself for missing it.  
  
There was no caption or date stamped on the back of the photograph, but considering the way they were posed and what was visible in the background this was an official photograph of some kind.  
  
Sherlock sat staring at the photograph, and more specifically at this younger version of John. His mind took what details he could from the picture, weighing and measuring them against his John, the current John. Only when he was satisfied and time had gone by, Sherlock set the photograph down and turned to the next one.  
  
This was only of John and the younger girl who must be his sister Harriet. Even in this photograph they weren't smiling. Harriet looked annoyed, mouth fixed in a pout and her arms crossed defensively. John was standing apart from his sister, on purpose, but he didn't look as annoyed. He looked more as if he was trying very hard to fade into the background.  
  
Sherlock had witnessed this strange ability of John's multiple times, especially in gatherings and when he was questioning a decision. It was extraordinary for someone who appeared who ordinary on the surface. But this John wasn't questioning; there was a tightness around his eyes and he wasn't looking directly at the photographer… worried. This was younger John worried.  
  
Sherlock set this photograph on top of the first then glanced at the other three photographs left. They were all of the other boys, and of Harriet. There weren't any more with John.  
  
Not worth looking at Sherlock decided and set them aside. He turned to the faded and wrinkled papers still in the box. A further glance revealed they were news articles more than a decade old, and not well preserved considering the fading. The first page contained a headline in large bolded letters: ‘Local Childrens' Games End in Arrest of Crime Ring.' A smaller version of the first picture he'd found was set amongst the text, with another picture of John and Harriet.  
  
It seemed that even a young John played hero, saving the world in his own way. Just like Sherlock had started trying to solve cases at a young age.  
  
As he continued reading the article, retaining only the important information while ignoring the elaborations, Sherlock learned even more about this young John. A John who it appeared had accidently stumbled across a drug deal and murder plot-in-progress while he, his sister and friends were playing in an abandoned building one afternoon.  
  
The author of the article didn't know any specific details of what happened, could only write what the police had shared with the public and their own speculations. But Sherlock was able to fill in most of the details himself.  
  
He could see why the police had named John, Harriet, and the other boys heroes of the city. And he read how relieved the people of the city were after the criminals were sentenced and locked away for a long time. Most of the crime and drug activity had decreased significantly after the major arrest, making the city supposedly a safer place.  
  
That was likely untrue, at least to the degree the papers were claiming. But people liked to feel safe and secure within their own homes. And news writers were experts at calming the general population.  
  
No, the real question, the one Sherlock wanted to know the answer to (preferably from John's own mouth) was why John- and Harriet to a point- appeared to have had such a different reaction from their friends. Why weren't they as proud of what they had accomplished as the other two boys? Putting away criminals was no simple task; especially when you were so young the police were inclined to think you were lying or just making up tales.  
  
Whatever the reasons for their reaction, it was still strong enough after so many years that John had become upset just seeing the box with the mementoes from that time. He'd gone as far as to hide it in the back of his closet. And who ever had put them in the box in the first place had hidden them away rather than burn or destroy them.  
  
His mobile buzzed twice in Sherlock's pocket, signaling a new text message. Sherlock pushed the puzzle of the box and its questions to the back of his mind while he read the new message from Lestrade. A new case involving a missing weapon, mysterious note, and relatives in position to inherit a rather large fortune.  
  
Sherlock put the papers and photographs back in the box then carried it downstairs to hide the box in his own room. Only then did he pull on his coat and hurried off to pick up John on his way to Lestrade.  
  
~~  
  
The case didn't prove to be as interesting as it first appeared, or as Lestrade had made it sound. But there was still quite a lot of running involved and a long period of waiting for the guilty party- parties it turned out- to reveal themselves. Suspense, murder, and relatives out for inheritance before they were due it. John at least seemed to enjoy himself; and went on about how it would make a good blog entry.  
  
When they were back at Baker Street after enjoying a dinner at Angelo's, Sherlock glanced over from where he was sprawled on the sofa to where John was pecking at the keyboard on his laptop. Even after all their cases John had written up he still had trouble typing properly.  
  
To stop the pecking- at least momentarily- and finally satisfy his curiosity, Sherlock turned his head against the pillow and focused his attention on John. "You never told me you were so heroic as a boy John. Do you have any other awards for your heroic deeds I'm not aware of?"  
  
The pecking stopped even before Sherlock finished his question. He watched closely as John went very still in his chair, hands poised above the keys he'd just been using. John didn't turn to look at Sherlock like he usually did for a conversation. Instead he sat blinking rapidly at his laptop screen.  
  
Upset again then, or still. Sherlock had obviously miscalculated somehow.  
  
"How," John coughed then cleared his throat roughly. "How do you mean?"  
  
Sherlock decided he might as well follow through with his enquiry; he never had liked doing anything by halves.  
  
"‘Local Childrens' Games End in Arrest of Criminal Ring,'" Sherlock quoted, reining in his sarcasm despite the urge to mock the idiotic headline. It was nearly as awful as the puns John used for his blog entries. "Not the best headline, but the story is more important. A group of children happen across a gathering of criminals and subsequently help the police arrest them? A human interest story with enough details for people to talk about for years. I expect you and the others were local celebrities; and what child wouldn't enjoy the attention and limelight?" (What ordinary child other than him; or possibly John, even).  
  
The answer to his rhetorical question was John slamming the lid of his laptop closed, resting his hands on top of it. " _How_  did you-" John stopped himself before he could finish. Apparently he had realized the answer himself and didn't like it. John made the sigh he usually did when Sherlock had done something he didn't approve of.  
  
"You went through my room! Why did you go in there, I never said you could-" John rubbed at his forehead. "Of course that doesn't matter. I'm guessing you saw the box; the box I hid in my closet which means that's the only place you could have seen it."  
  
"I wasn't aware your room was off limits John, seeing as we share the flat together," Sherlock commented, folding his hands on top of his chest. "And the box obviously upset you when your sister left it for you. That's why you put it in the back of your closet where you wouldn't have to see it."  
  
John pushed his laptop off to the side and swung his legs over so he was sitting upright. "Yes, Sherlock. I put it there because I didn't want to look at it or think about it. But that doesn't give you any right to sneak around. This is  _private_ and extremely personal."  
  
Sherlock watched, carefully remaining calm as John rose to his feet and started pacing. It was much more effective now without the limp and the cane. "Curiosity, John; it is deadly and all."  
  
"Curiosity is not the same as invading a person's privacy." John barked as he turned half towards Sherlock. He took a deep breath, shook his head, and moved away again. "Especially invading my privacy about something like this."  
  
Sherlock pushed himself upright more until he was sitting. "‘Like this'? What exactly is ‘this' John?" He asked curiously.  
  
John spun around from the other end of the sofa, his usually warm eyes blazing. It seemed everything Sherlock said, no matter the sentiment behind it, only infuriated John more.  
  
"Like what ruined my childhood, Sherlock!" John shouted in a burst of anger. Then he adjusted his stance and said a little closer to his normal voice, "We all have parts of our lives we want to forget, Sherlock. Even you I imagine." Sherlock kept his expression neutral. "Well this, this is what I wanted to forget."  
  
Sherlock watched John carefully, watching the waves of anger move across his face before finally John turned his back on him. He put an end to their conversation without a single word and walked over to the desk instead of saying anything else. John picked up his wallet and mobile, stuffing them into his pocket; then he crossed the room to the door off the landing and pulled on his jacket.  
  
"I'm going out," John announced fiercely, not looking anywhere near Sherlock still on the sofa.  
  
John took the few steps to the door, pushed it open, then thundered down the stairs. By the time Sherlock got to the open doorway John was slamming the front door behind him.  
  
~~  
  
Usually when John stormed out for a walk to get some air after one of their ‘domestics' as Mrs. Hudson called them, he was only away for a few hours before he eventually came back; often with an invitation of dinner offering takeaway or a fresh cup of tea.  
  
This time John didn't come back after three hours, or five... or six.  
  
When Sherlock woke from a restless night of merely dozing on the sofa, there was none of the usual noise of John making tea or breakfast in the kitchen and no sound of the shower running.  
  
Considering the hour it was doubtful John was still asleep; most of the time, unless he hadn't slept in days, John was awake with the sun. Sherlock still uncurled himself from his position on the sofa and went upstairs just to make sure.  
  
There was no sign of John in his room, and the bed looked completely untouched and unslept in.  
  
Neither of them had slept much during the case that had drawn out needlessly over three days. John had managed to catch some sleep a few times but never for long. Sherlock's mind had been racing too fast trying to solve the case to even consider sleeping. Both of them were in desperate need of sleep; yet John hadn't come home to sleep in his own bed.  
  
As soon as Sherlock realized John hadn't been home at all he hurried back down to the living room. His mobile had slipped down between the cushions of the sofa so he had to dig it out again. Once Sherlock had the phone in his hand he unlocked the screen, opened his messages, and tapped out a quick message to John.  
  
 _No tea this morning. Come make some. SH._  
  
After a ridiculously long time had passed and John still hadn't responded to his text, Sherlock dropped down onto the sofa. He kept the mobile in hand to be absolutely sure he would hear it when John's reply came.  
  
He sat staring down at the screen of his mobile, waiting for it to light up. When it stayed stubbornly dark Sherlock considered sending another message. John had taken his mobile with him so he did have it; he was probably just refusing to answer.  
  
Sherlock thought then finally gave in and unlocked the screen again. He typed out ‘ _John? SH.'_  
  
Simple, and a question. John was certain to be inclined to answer now.  
  
Yet his mobile continued to remain dark and silent no matter how intently Sherlock stared at it. Why wasn't John answering? This was ridiculous.  
  
As even  _more_  time went by Sherlock fell back into his customary sprawl across the length of the sofa. Why was John making him wait; usually John answered his texts within minutes. Even if it was to yell at him for adding yet another item- usually for an experiment- to his shopping list.  
  
Sherlock wouldn't even mind if John responded to his texts with an angry or annoyed comment. Or to yell at him. Or to tell him to stop texting him. This silence was… irritating, and worrying.  
  
The silence became more and more suffocating so to battle it Sherlock tried to continue some of his experiments. But he couldn't give them the focus they needed. There were no new comments on his website no matter how often he checked, and his science journals were all boring and filled with nonsense.  
  
Finally,  _finally_ ;  _hours_  later, his mobile vibrated clutched in the hand resting on his stomach. Sherlock abruptly sat up, dislodging the papers from his face, and held up his mobile to peer at it.  
  
On the now lit screen were the words ‘New Text from John.' Sherlock quickly unlocked the screen and brought up the new message.  
  
John's message was short, and to the point.  
  
 _Leave me alone_  
  
Obviously their time apart so far had done nothing to improve John's mood. He was still upset; though John hadn't used any punctuation so Sherlock couldn't exactly read his mind.  
  
Sherlock tried again.  _I've told you you should sign your texts, John. Otherwise how do I know if they're really from you? SH._  
  
 _Who else would they be from, idiot?_  was John's quick reply. More annoyed then upset this time, and John had called him an idiot.  _Now leave me alone._  
  
Sherlock's mouth quirked upward on one side.  _You were the one who replied first_ , he shot back, fingers flying over the keyboard on his mobile. It might be slightly childish of him, but he was just so happy to hear from John. And that John was finally responding to him.  
  
 _Yes, now leave me_ alone  _Sherlock,_ John sent back within less than a minute.  
  
It seemed John was being stubborn like he could be sometimes. Especially when he was upset or annoyed about something that personally affected him. The fact that he had responded to Sherlock's texts was optimistic progress.  
  
Sherlock waited several minutes, alternatively checking the time and for any new messages on his mobile. Hopefully John would send another text without Sherlock having to prod him into it.  
  
But no more messages came no matter how patient Sherlock tried to be or how long he waited. It seemed John wasn't going to engage in conversation with him more than the few texts they'd exchanged. Maybe he needed more time, longer than usual then when John went off on his own like this, to do whatever John needed to do.  
  
Sherlock reluctantly set his mobile on the floor next to where he was on the sofa. He needed to find a way to pass the time until John returned. Preferably in a way that wouldn't make John upset with him all over again. Lestrade hadn't contacted him about any new cases and there was nothing interesting in the paper.  
  
On a glance around the sitting room Sherlock's gaze caught on his violin case by the bookcase beside his music stand. There was a piece he'd been working on recently but hadn't finished yet, and John always seemed to appreciate his playing. When Sherlock wasn't just running the bow over the strings because he was irritated or to drive Mycroft off.  
  
After sending one last text to John, Sherlock pushed himself off the sofa and walked over to his violin.  
  
 _Come home. Please. SH._  
  
~~~  
  
Working on the song, improvising notes and making edits on a handy piece of sheet music, occupied most of the rest of his afternoon. Sherlock ended up making a lot of progress on the song, but he still couldn't get it exactly right.  
  
The entire time he kept his mobile close, just so he would be able to hear it in case John texted him again. But John never did, not at all.  
  
This was just becoming tiresome. Nothing could hold his attention for any length of time. The flat wasn't nearly the same without John, it was so quiet and… empty. Not to mention the sad lack of tea.  
  
John had to come back; (didn't he?)  
  
~~  
  
Finally as a last resort Sherlock leaned over nearly falling off the sofa in the process, to pull his laptop over from the table. The first time he'd wanted his laptop Sherlock had called for John to fetch it for him, then realized his mistake when it didn't appear in minutes.  
  
But now he was desperate for a distraction. There still wasn't anything interesting on his website. Apparently the criminal classes were being unimaginative again. It made him ever so briefly wonder where Moriarty had gone. But it was a fleeting thought because Sherlock had had enough of Moriarty. And Sherlock already put John in enough trouble himself on every case they worked on.  
  
On a whim Sherlock opened a new tab for John's blog. He didn't always read every single write-up of every case John posted for the world and for their ‘fans' to read. But they were mostly interesting, despite John's penchant for the dramatic and elaboration. Sherlock entertained himself by reading over John's shoulder as he typed, making comments about John's word choices and descriptions.  
  
The last entry on John's blog was from their last case before Moriarty's games. It hadn't been the most intriguing of cases but there had been a ridiculous amount of running. And he and John always enjoyed running.  
  
Sherlock clicked on the title to read the entirety of the entry in a new tab. He read through John's narrative of the case in which John apparently thought it necessary to include every single detail. Even the ones Sherlock couldn't remember completely given how elaborated they were.  
  
But Sherlock would freely admit John had done an excellent job of putting what had happened into words, describing everything well. John had talent as a writer; talent put to much better use writing up their cases than blogging about their boring day to day activities.  
  
Sherlock reached the end of the entry then scrolled further down to read through the few comments people had left. There was the usual drivel from his sister Harry; Mrs. Hudson cooing over he and John and their supposedly more than friends relationship; and at least one other mutual acquaintance of theirs. Sometimes Mike, Lestrade, or someone else involved in their cases who didn't completely despise his presence.  
  
The very last comment was from someone whose name Sherlock didn't recognize, or recall John ever mentioning. But considering how familiarly he addressed John, calling him ‘Johnny,'  
it wasn't a stranger.  
  
Sherlock was curious about the danger the person warned of; he sounded  _very_  worried and panicked. And Sherlock refused to let John be put into danger without knowing everything possible about it. What exactly was this threat that might be ‘coming back' for them? Whoever this was was frustratingly vague.  
  
Sherlock returned to the main page of John's blog and started going through the older entries. Not all of them had comments on them, and not many were very interesting. But this person, this stranger- or not- called Mark hadn't posted anything on any of John's other entries. Only on the one entry. And of course he only went by his first name, with no hint at a last name. There had to be dozens of Marks in London alone.  
  
Sherlock wondered if John had seen the comment on his entry. There was no time stamp so it wouldn't be easy to tell exactly when it was posted. But John had only posted the entry itself two days ago. It was possible he'd seen it before he went off for his multi-day journey wherever he was. Or not, seeing as John didn't frequently check his blog.  
  
Sherlock set the laptop next to him on the sofa and grabbed for his mobile. He leaned forward with his arms on his knees, considering as he tapped the top of his mobile against his chin. Finally Sherlock gave in, unlocked the mobile, and sent one last text to John.  
  
 _Comment from a ‘Mark' on your blog. He claims you're in danger, that someone is coming after you. Where are you? You should come home. SH_.  
  
John's answer came after a longer time than Sherlock liked. John had his mobile on him but wasn't checking it often or right away when it vibrated. Obviously he was too preoccupied with something else.  
  
 _You don't believe that Sherlock. I'm fine, not in any danger. I'll be home soon._  
  
Well at least John was promising to come home soon. That was good. Sherlock felt a weight, a tenseness he hadn't noticed before, lift. Baker Street wasn't the same without John. It was emptier somehow, darker. But now it was certain John was coming home, everything was alright.  
  
The only lingering question was if John really was in danger.  
  
Sherlock refused to ask Mycroft; he wouldn't stoop that far. Mycroft didn't need to have a hand in this. Sherlock had his own, perfectly successful, methods of keeping a close eye on John.  
  
He opened a new message and sent a request to his homeless network. A request for them to watch John and contact him immediately if anything at all happened. It was one more thing he could control about John's safety when he wasn't with John himself. John wouldn't easily forgive him if he caught Sherlock hovering after just accusing him of invading his privacy.  
  
In the time before John came back Sherlock lay on the sofa staring at the ceiling pondering the mystery surrounding John. Considering the information from the news articles and photographs he'd found in the box in John's closet, and the new comment on John's blog from ‘Mark' warning of danger.  
  
Had they been enjoying the calm and quiet after Moriarty too much that whatever this was from John's past had to come and disrupt them now?  
  
He was interrupted by a quiet knock on the door he'd apparently left open. "Sherlock? You awake love?" Mrs. Hudson called as she poked her head around the door. She came inside and sighed when she caught sight of him on the sofa. "John still not back yet?"  
  
"Obviously," Sherlock drawled, draping his arm over his eyes so he didn't have to look at anything.  
  
He heard her come further in until she was standing beside the sofa, hovering over him. "There's no need to worry. He'll come back to you. I don't know what the two of you would do without each other."  
  
Likely he would stay here on the sofa for the foreseeable future, bored to tears Sherlock thought bitterly.  
  
His leg jerked in reaction to a sudden warm weight on his knee. "I'll make you some tea. It won't be as good as John's, but it might help cheer you up."  
  
"I don't want  _tea_ ," Sherlock muttered as Mrs. Hudson lifted her hand away and started towards the kitchen. (Hopefully she could make the tea without discovering any of the experiments he'd hidden in there). "I want John."  
  
"How about some biscuits?" Mrs. Hudson asked, putting her selective hearing to good use. "Those chocolate ones you like so much."  
  
Sherlock considered getting up but decided firmly against it. "There aren't any. We ate them all and John forgot to get more on his last shopping trip."  
  
There were noises coming from the kitchen of Mrs. Hudson making the tea and clanging things around. "You're perfectly able to go to the store yourself, Sherlock. It won't hurt you to step foot in one," she scolded. "And John might appreciate it if you tried a little."  
  
In silent response Sherlock rolled over so he was facing the back of the sofa, face pressed into the cushions. "I do try. But he's still gone."  
  
Silence, horrible silence, reigned in Baker Street until the water finished heating and Mrs. Hudson poured tea for them both. Her tea was always delicious, but never as good as John's. John somehow knew, almost by instinct it seemed, exactly how Sherlock preferred his tea.  
  
She shuffled back into the living room, walking slowly around the sofa and to the table between the sofa and John's chair. "Here Sherlock, a nice cup of tea for you." A clink as she set the mug down near him. "Drink some while its hot."  
  
Sherlock mumbled a vague acknowledgement but didn't move. He'd drink the tea when he wanted to, not now.  
  
Mrs. Hudson tsked at him but he could tell she didn't mean it. She reached over and gently squeezed his shoulder, like the supportive familial figure she was. Then once Mrs. Hudson was at the door she called back, "There is the cafe downstairs dear. Just a suggestion."  
  
He listened as she walked slowly down the stairs, going step by step with both slippered feet. Her hip must not have been bothering her anymore given how agile she was moving. And still acting like a housekeeper even after all her protests.  
  
Sherlock stayed curled on the sofa with his back to the room, musing while the tea cooled alone on the table. John had promised he would be home soon, but Sherlock didn't know how  _soon_  was ‘soon.'  
  
He could stay here on the sofa, waiting even longer with nothing to distract him other than a cup of tea. Or he could go downstairs to the cafe, pick something out quick, and be back when John came home. John would probably appreciate a treat; especially if he'd been staying with his sister as Sherlock suspected. And making John happy was always a good thing.  
  
~~~  
  
By the time the front door downstairs not quite slammed open and John's steady but dragging steps echoed up the stairs, Sherlock was sitting on the sofa again drinking his now cooled tea.  
  
John stepped inside past the door then stopped, casting a quick but thorough glance around. Then he continued walking, making his way over near the sofa. He stopped beside his chair and tossed the bag he'd been carrying over his shoulder onto it with a loud thump.  
  
"Have you moved at all since I left?" John's voice asked from just feet away. He sounded more amused than at all upset. It was also a fairly reasonable question. Some days Sherlock felt perfectly entitled to lounging on the sofa for hours at a time.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock replied but didn't feel like elaborating. He turned over onto his other side and shifted his head towards John. "You don't seem to have enjoyed your visit with your sister."  
  
John frowned, blinking rapidly. "Not exactly, no. We're getting along even worse than usual at the moment. And it doesn't help we're both tense."  
  
Sherlock took in the shadows under his eyes, the permanent frown his mouth seemed set in, and finally the tense set of his shoulders. And instead of commenting further about John's relationship with his sister, Sherlock offered, "There might still be tea in the kitchen."  
  
John's eyes widened almost comically. "You made tea?" He asked in astonishment. It sounded like the world was ending, or he was hallucinating Sherlock having made tea.  
  
Sherlock scoffed. "No, of course not. Mrs. Hudson made some earlier. There may still be some left warming in the kettle."  
  
John's face fell a little, but the edges of his mouth were still turned up. "All right, thanks." He took a few steps in the direction of the kitchen then stopped suddenly. "I suppose you'd like a cup?"  
  
Sherlock nodded his agreement. "Thanks." Then he closed his eyes and clasped his hands together.  
  
John resumed his walk into the kitchen and took a mug down from the cupboard with the squeaky hinges. Sherlock heard the moment John noticed the bag of pastries from the cafe from the rustle of the paper bag followed by John's happily surprised laugh. The one he made every time Sherlock managed to surprise him.  
  
John finished making fresh tea and took out a clean plate to put the pastries on. Then he came back out into the living room, setting the mugs down on the table and the plate of pastries between them.  
  
"You have to have at least one, Sherlock," John instructed, almost falling down into his chair. "I'm not letting you off until I see you eat at least one pastry on the plate."  
  
Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and glanced over at the plate filled with pastries. "You expect to eat the rest?"  
  
John chuckled as he leaned forward to pick up his tea. "I could, maybe."  
  
"Hmm." Sherlock had mainly picked the selection of pastries based on John's preferences. But there were one or two he wouldn't be adverse to eating if John made him. Still, he waited to see which John would choose first.  
  
John took a sip of his tea then sighed happily. Leaning back in his chair he asked, "Did Mrs. hudson put these together?"  
  
"No, she just made the tea," Sherlock answered; seeing as John didn't seem to be in any hurry Sherlock reached over to the table and snagged a croissant.  
  
"Then these…?" John said, trailing off as he gestured at the plate.  
  
Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a shrug and bit into the pastry. He chewed slowly then swallowed. Finally he answered, "Go well with the tea you and Mrs. Hudson made."  
  
John stared at him then tilted his head slightly to the side and treated Sherlock to his own considering look. In the meantime as he thought John sipped at his tea until it must have been nearly half gone.  
  
Sherlock eyed the mug in John's hands while he finished off his croissant. When he was done Sherlock brushed off the crumbs and picked up his own tea John made. Sherlock took a big gulp of the tea and sighed happily. He'd missed John's tea.  
  
"So you went down and picked these out, just for our tea," John confirmed, leaning forward to set his mug back down on the table. He hovered a hand over the pastries before finally picking out a danish. "Thanks for that."  
  
"Mm," Sherlock replied distracted. "It was Mrs. Hudson's idea."  
  
John took one bite of his danish followed quickly by two more. "I'm sure," he answered, not quite hiding his smile.  
  
The two of them sat in comfortable silence as John finished off his danish, obviously enjoying each bite. Sherlock considered the remaining pastries, wondering if he should take another.  
  
"Sherlock," John started, speaking into the silence. He stopped and swallowed before continuing. "I'm not mad at you, all right? Just, ask before you go through my things or into my room when I'm not here. Can you do that?"  
  
It wasn't much to ask really, and he definitely hadn't meant to upset John. He'd just been… curious. Which was possibly a fault of his.  
  
"From now on I will be sure to ask you before I do anything considered invading your privacy," Sherlock pledged dryly without moving.  
  
When he heard John huff quietly Sherlock turned his head and opened his eyes to look at John. "Is that enough for you?"  
  
John was still smiling. He gripped the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. As he picked up the mug John asked in return, "Tea?"  
  
"Mm, thanks," Sherlock answered as he swiped another pastry.  
  
John laughed easily. "Leave at least one for me. Those don't count as a real meal, just so you know."  
  
"They're food John, of course they count." Sherlock disagreed just before he bit the pastry in half.  
  
Using his well-developed ability of tuning Sherlock out when he needed to, John continued into the kitchen and started making tea-making noises.  
  
Sherlock finished chewing his mouthful then let his eyes slowly slip closed at the familiar noise of John in the kitchen. By the time John returned with two steaming mugs of tea Sherlock had finally fallen into a peaceful, deep sleep.  
  
~~  
  
Later, much later, Sherlock looked up from his laptop propped up on his legs. "John, that comment on your blog from ‘Mark'-"  
  
"It's nothing Sherlock," John reassured in his calm, steady doctors voice. He didn't look away from the medical journal he was reading; one he'd been planning to read for weeks but hadn't had time before with their case. "Mark was always excitable. There's not anything to worry about."  
  
Sherlock didn't believe that for even part of a second. He could tell John was still worried, there was a furrow vying for a permanent place on his forehead. And John wouldn't so easily dismiss a friend who claimed to be in danger; even a childhood, estranged one. So for some reason John was trying to hide how worried he really was.  
  
All Sherlock said was "All right," and went back to browsing the internet. But he continued watching John out of the corner of his eye.  
  
  
3.  
  
Only a few days later they learned just how not all right things were.  
  
As John typed key by key on his laptop, ignoring the suspicious noises from whatever experiment Sherlock was performing in the kitchen, the mobile on the table started buzzing.  
  
John stopped typing to turn and look over at the phone. He leaned over, careful so his laptop didn't fall, and glanced at the number. It wasn't one he recognized; Greg and Harry's numbers were programmed into his phone, and Mycroft somehow always showed up the same no matter how often he changed his number.  
  
For some idiotic, genius reason Sherlock had listed John's number on his website for potential clients to call with cases. John didn't make a habit of answering numbers he didn't know, and Sherlock didn't like talking on the phone when he could text, so John really had no idea why Sherlock thought it was a good idea.  
  
With a sigh John picked up the phone. "Client!" He called over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. Then John unlocked the phone and raised it to his ear. "Hello?"  
  
"John? John Watson?"  
  
John frowned, tilting his head to hold the mobile between his shoulder and ear. "Sorry, who's this?"  
  
"It is you Johnny! Thought so," the voice exclaimed triumphantly. "It's Chris, Chris Harper."  
  
"Chris?" John repeated, completely and absolutely astonished. The voice didn't exactly match what he remembered of Chris, but it had been years since they'd spoken. John hadn't talked or been in contact with anyone from his old neighborhood since they'd moved away when he was a boy. He hadn't wanted to really. "How are you?"  
  
"That's why I'm calling Johnny. I think we're in a lot of trouble. Someone's been following Mark and he's real scared; and I've been getting unsigned threats in my mail. We think someone's after all of us. You need to be careful Johnny."  
  
Like John didn't suffer enough drama living with Sherlock and having Mycroft Holmes involved in his life. "I'm sure everything's fine, Chris," he reassured calmly. "There's no one after us. We're safe. They're all in jail remember?"  
  
Chris' voice took on a frantic edge, climbing upward in pitch. "Not anymore Johnny. Something's different now. I don't feel  _safe_." He made a funny nervous sound in his throat. "They're back Johnny. I don't know how but they're back."  
  
"Chris,  _Chris_. Remember to breathe," John coached as he pushed himself into a more upright position. He set the laptop down on the arm of the chair. "I'll look into it all right? I have a friend in the police I could ask for a favor. I can't promise anything but I'll let you know, okay?"  
  
"Thanks Johnny," Chris said not sounding very relieved at all. "I knew I could count on you."  
  
John swallowed thickly. "Right, course." He glanced towards the kitchen but apparently Sherlock was still occupied with his experiment. "Take care of yourself, Chris. Watch your back."  
  
"I will Johnny. And you look out for any people following you, suspicious people." Chris warned. "We're not safe. They're coming back for us."  
  
That didn't sound right. It'd been  _years_ , why was this all getting stirred up again now? "Chris, are you-"  
  
John couldn't even finish his question before there was a click and the phone started beeping at him. Chris had hung up.  
  
John ended the call, scrolled down to the number in his call history, and hit redial. After two rings the answering machine clicked over.  
  
He hit the end call button harder then was probably necessary and let the mobile fall into his lap.  
  
"Client?" Sherlock's voice asked eagerly. John partially turned to see Sherlock standing just beyond the kitchen, poking his head out with the safety goggles still perched on top of his hair.  
  
John shook his head and ran a hand over his face. "No, not a client. Just an old friend."  
  
"Oh," Sherlock said, all of his eagerness disappeared. "Boring." He vanished back into the kitchen.  
  
"Right," John said under his breath. He inhaled deeply and picked up the mobile again. Before he could think better of it John unlocked the screen and dialed Harry's number.  
  
It rang three, four times (maybe Harry wasn't there, maybe she had gone somewhere, or maybe she was asleep), and finally five times before Harry picked up.  
  
"John?" His sister greeted, sounding confused. "If you keep this up I might start thinking you actually like me."  
  
"Of course I like you Harry," John said. "You're my sister."  
  
Harry laughed at that like she actually found it funny. "Right. So why're you calling this time?"  
  
No pleasantries again. "Do you remember Chris? Or Mark? From our old neighborhood?" John asked thickly, rubbing at his forehead. It seemed like the more he  _didn't_  want to talk about all of this the more it came up and haunted him.  
  
"Of course I do," Harry answered a touch briskly. "What about them?"  
  
"I just got a call from Chris. I hadn't heard from him since we moved away but just now he called to try and warn me. He thought we might be in danger." John explained, aware he was talking a little faster than he normally did. John took a steadying breath and waited for his sisters response.  
  
"What did he mean ‘danger'?" Harry asked, surprisingly calm. "Everyone's in some kind of danger every day. Did he say exactly what danger?"  
  
John replayed the brief conversation over again in his head. He grudgingly admitted, "Not really, no. Just we're in danger and not safe. And that ‘they're all back coming for us.'"  
  
Harry sighed loudly in his ear. "Well that's not cryptic. And who are ‘they'? Why would anyone be after  _us_? He doesn't sound like much help at all."  
  
"Harry, I'm sure there are reasons people would be after us-"  
  
"After  _you_ -" Harry interjected. "Who knows how many enemies you and that flat mate of yours have made with your cases. But I'm not any part of that."  
  
Of course she'd never done anything. Though he was reminded of his disastrous first date with Sarah when she'd been kidnapped because Chinese smugglers mistook him for Sherlock. Sarah's life had been in danger because of him. They were friends now but John wouldn't soon forgive himself for that mistake. It was part of why he'd been careful not to involve Harry in any of their cases.  
  
"Yeah, true," John conceded with a small nod. "You aren't part of our cases, but we've both done questionable things Harry. Even if they're not close to the mess when we were kids."  
  
"Is that what you think this is?" Harry asked sounding extremely skeptical. "You think we're in danger from them? After all these years."  
  
How stubborn a Watson could be when they believed they were in the right. "Yes, I think we could be. It's the only reason I can think of why someone would be targeting the four of us. And Chris and Mark sounded really scared Harry. Especially Chris; he was a little.. manic. He said people were following him."  
  
Harry made a strange scoffing laugh. "And that surprises you? He was already a little… unhinged, even before everything. Nothing's going on John. They're locked away in  _prison_ and they've been there for decades. They can't touch us. We have nothing to worry about."  
  
"As far as we know, Harry!" John snapped back at her. "We haven't heard anything about it in years. They could be anywhere and we wouldn't know. Maybe they are coming after us."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous John. It's been too long," Harry argued, still not sounding nearly as worried as she should. "Listen," his sister said, "I've got to go. Be safe Johnny."  
  
"Harry, wait-!" John shouted into the phone, but the beeping proclaimed she was already gone. She had better things to do than argue with him about whether or not they were in danger. Especially since it was unlikely they'd ever agree about it.  
  
John exhaled slowly and tossed the mobile across the sofa. He closed his eyes and tried to think about something other then someone maybe coming to kill him.  
  
"Another disagreement with your sister?" Sherlock commented from just over his shoulder. He must have been hovering over the back of the sofa again. "Really John, every time you talk with her you become more upset. It's not helping you any."  
  
"Yes,  _thank you_  Sherlock," John snapped without opening his eyes and looking over at the man. "I don't need your commentary on my own sibling relationship."  
  
"You obviously aren't listening anyway," Sherlock observed with a huff. He turned on his heel and strode back on long legs towards the kitchen. John glanced up in time to see Sherlock's hair disheveled from his running his fingers through it and the goggles perched on his hair.  
  
Still playing the mad scientist then.  
  
John tugged the remote for the television out from between the cushions and switched on the telly. He turned the volume up loud enough to drown out any persistent nagging thoughts but not so high he wouldn't be able to hear any explosions from the kitchen.  
  
~  
  
Later on while John was engrossed in the mindless program he was watching, Sherlock walked very quietly back into the sitting room and over to John. He reached over the back of the sofa and picked up the mobile where it lay forgotten on the other end from John.  
  
Sherlock checked John was still focused on the program then retrieved his laptop from its precarious position on top of a stack of journals on the desk. Then he returned to the kitchen to research the number of John's ‘old friend.'  
  
Things seemed to be quickly enfolding and Sherlock wanted to know everything. Even though John was so insistent on keeping him out of it for some reason; probably for his own safety. But Sherlock refused to let that happen. He didn't like not knowing things, especially when it came to John. John was just too stubborn that he wanted to do everything on his own first. Sherlock simply had to find a way to convince John it would be better for them to work together.

 


	2. Chapter 2

4.  
  
In the end Sherlock didn't have much time to research John's ‘old friend,' or to try to convince John.  
  
And even more frustrating, despite Sherlock being excellent at research (he could usually find every piece of information he needed) there seemed to be several points of data missing that would help him to understand. There were no records or archives with information about what had happened to John and his sister, or even about the criminals they'd helped put away. Sherlock wasn't able to find another copy of the news article or any of the photographs. And John was no longer allowing him any access to his room, or wherever he had hidden the box again.  
  
Sherlock had hoped this mystery and the resulting research would be even more interesting than any case Lestrade or a client could offer. Yet two days later he had no cases on and was no further along with his research into John's past. There was absolutely nothing to distract him from his lack of progress, and nothing new to help him protect John.  
  
Sherlock was well on his way to pulling his hair out in exasperation, or to start shooting the walls since he knew perfectly well where John had hidden the gun. His ever watchful flatmate had been sneaking worried glances at him from over his book or laptop screen… when he wasn't shouting at Sherlock to just sit down and be still for one second. John showed he was worried in the strangest ways.  
  
On the morning two days after the call John refused to talk about, Sherlock was laying on the sofa using John's laptop still attempting to find anything new. He'd gotten into John's blog and social media site, but hadn't found anything he didn't already know or hadn't wanted to know.  
  
It was all  _useless_.  
  
"Sherlock if you don't stop that I will take  _my_  laptop away and you'll never see it again," John threatened, or tried to threaten. Really neither of them wanted to get up and search for wherever Sherlock's laptop had gone to this time, or to see if it was even still useable.  
  
Sherlock continued typing, ignoring John's warning. He went on to his next idea for a potential source of information. Sherlock was quickly coming to the bottom of that list; there was surprisingly little information on John on the internet. Or information that didn't involve their websites or their cases together.  
  
"What could you possibly be doing that you have to use my laptop all the time? We don't have any cases on." John said, sounding confused the way he did when he was trying to keep up with Sherlock's thought process. "You'd better not be looking at anything illegal. Or at porn."  
  
"I'm not," Sherlock reassured, not looking away from the screen.  
  
John sighed. "Yes well, just don't… do anything to it." He rustled the newspaper he was reading and held it closer to his face. "It's not like I can stop you from borrowing it."  
  
Sherlock huffed and resumed typing, a small smile tugging at his mouth.  
  
They sat in comfortable silence, reading and researching respectively, as the sun shone dimly in through the window doing its best to offer warmth. It was a wonderful quiet, peaceful morning in Baker Street.  
  
And Sherlock's mind just wouldn't leave him alone; it wouldn't let him focus on what he needed to. He was just about to get up and try working on his experiment again when John began rustling the newspaper noisily; not just to settle it, but in distress.  
  
Sherlock pushed the laptop down to his knees. He looked over at John, frowning when he noticed John's hands were shaking slightly where they gripped the sides of the paper. "John?"  
  
John started cursing not so quietly, interspersed with phrases John must be reading from whatever article had caught his attention. "Shit, shit!  _Suicide_? Why the hell would he-? ‘found in his own flat late last night lying on the floor...' ‘police have found that there were'… drugs? He never did drugs, how could he  _overdose_?"  
  
Sherlock rapidly sat up, draping his legs over the side of the sofa. He could clearly hear the rising panic in John's voice, especially as John folded the paper into half and let it drop into his lap.  
  
John leaned over, clutching his head in his hands. His eyes darted over the text on the page, moving faster as he grew more upset. Sherlock wasn't sure if John realized he was reading parts of the article aloud still.  
  
"Damn it, damn it!" John cursed loudly, brokenly; he tossed the paper aside without his usual care and rose to his feet with surprising energy. "They were right!"  
  
Sherlock watched as John stormed over to the desk and started rustling through the papers and journals they'd been storing there. "Phone, where did I put my phone? It's impossible to find anything in this place anymore. Everything's a  _mess_ …"  
  
Sherlock reached across over to the table. He pulled the paper towards him and started scanning the headlines. "In your jacket, by the door. You left it in there."  
  
John exhaled noisily and let the papers he'd been holding fall back down amongst the rest of the chaos. "Right, thanks," John said, crossing back across to the door.  
  
John pulled out his jacket and reached down into the front pocket on the left. "John," Sherlock called, "What's wrong, what did you see?"  
  
Going through each article in the paper would take too long seeing as John was upset  _now_. And reading the article when he finally found it would be too late. John wasn't always very open with information, especially about himself, but Sherlock found it easy to read John by now (most of the time). If John would just turn around and  _talk_  to him Sherlock was certain he could fix this.  
  
"Not now, Sherlock," John snapped shortly. He pulled his mobile from the right pocket of his jacket and seconds later it started buzzing in his hand.  
  
John looked dubiously down at the mobile as it continued making noise and vibrating. "Blocked number, that's odd."  
  
"Are you going to answer it?" Sherlock asked standing up and following John's footsteps over to where he was standing. "It's not a number in your contacts, or a friend or acquaintance, and its not likely a client would use a blocked number to contact a detective for advice. Therefore-"  
  
John glanced up at him for just a second before looking back at his mobile. "I'm going to answer it Sherlock. And I don't want you to listen in."  
  
"John-"  
  
  
  
John pressed the button to answer the call and lifted the phone to his ear. "John Watson," he answered primly.  
  
"Little Johnny Watson, all growed up," a deep, obviously electronically disguised voice spoke. No one in real life sounded like that, or not anyone who wasn't on television. "How good it is to hear your voice."  
  
"Who is this?" John demanded in the best remnant of his captain's voice. He didn't scare easily, not anymore thanks both to his time in the military and Sherlock, but after his and Sherlock's encounter with Moriarty he wasn't taking chances. "What do you want with me?"  
  
The deep electronically disguised voice laughed at him. "Have you read today's paper? There's one article you might be… personally invested in."  
  
John glanced over at the paper still lying innocently on the table. "You mean the story about what happened to Mark? Did you have something to do with that? Is that why you're calling?"  
  
"So many questions Johnny," the voice laughed strangely. "How'd you like the article? So sad the poor boy had to die." The voice hummed, reminding John of Moriarty for a moment- not a nice reminder. "He had years of freedom while we all rotted away in prison. I know he didn't expect me, scared him nearly to death. And then, when he did die… he begged me to spare him."  
  
"You killed him didn't you, you killed Mark. Why would you-" Reason broke through the fog of anger clouding his thoughts about how Mark had been murdered and there was absolutely nothing he could do. But one thing the murderer had said nagged at him, he wasn't sure why but… oh. Oh  _shit._  
  
"You're one of them, one of the ring we put away,"John breathed quietly, squeezing his eyes shut. "Dammit, you were all supposed to be put away for life. We were supposed to never have anything to do with you again. You were gone, we were all free."  
  
"For a few years," the voice replied calmly. "Just long enough to make you all comfortable and think you were safe. Then, we worked the system."  
  
"You're lying!" John protested desperately. His voice betrayed him as it shook slightly. "All of you were given a life sentence. There's no way you could ever get out."  
  
"In a perfect world Johnny," the person laughed. "But this world isn't even close to perfect. I got out; and I'm just the first. We'll all get out soon and we'll come after you. All of you. Mark was just the first." There was a smile audible in the voice as it hissed, "Better watch your back Johnny."  
  
Then the phone started beeping in his ear. The person had hung up.  
  
"Damn it, damn it, damn it," John cursed rapidly under his breath as he jammed his mobile back into his pocket. It hadn't just been him worrying too much or overthinking things. He and Harry were in actual danger, danger that Mark had already died because of. And maybe even Chris since John hadn't heard from him again.  
  
But right now John needed to focus on protecting himself and his sister.  
  
He turned and went as fast as he could out of the living room and up the stairs to his own room. There was no telling how long he and Harry had before the caller appeared and followed through on his threat. They needed to take advantage of the time they had before that happened. So he needed to leave Baker Street (and Sherlock) and get to Harry.  
  
John pulled his duffel bag out from under the bed and placed it on top of the neatly made covers. He packed only the things he would need for a few days stay, John didn't anticipate this taking any longer.  
  
Once he had everything he thought he'd need, except for the gun tucked handily into his waistband, John zipped the bag closed and slung it over his shoulder.  
  
On his way back downstairs John made sure to close his door before he hurried down to stop on the landing. Not for the first time John thought about how grateful he was to Sherlock for helping him get rid of the limp he'd been afraid he would have for the rest of his life. There was nothing like being able to run and climb stairs and actually  _walk_  on both of his legs.  
  
He owed it to Sherlock, the man who had changed his life, to protect him.  
  
As if John's thoughts had summoned him, Sherlock appeared in the doorway just across from him. He was the picture of nonchalance, not quite leaning against the frame. But John saw how Sherlock tensed and his mouth twisted when he noticed the bag hanging off John's shoulder.  
  
"You're leaving again," Sherlock observed, startling John because he never stated the obvious. And Sherlock so rarely looked.. conflicted like this. "Whoever called you as a blocked number made you feel unsafe enough that you're leaving Baker Street, the one place you feel the safest, to go somewhere else. Somewhere you think you're needed more."  
  
Sherlock's pale eyes narrowed piercingly for several seconds before he sighed. "Your sisters John? That ended so well the last time you visited."  
  
John adjusted the strap of the bag on his shoulder, his good shoulder, and cocked his head at Sherlock. "We're both in danger Sherlock, and I owe it to Harry to help keep her safe. I'm perfectly capable of protecting myself, and I can also protect my sister. So of course I'm going over to hers. And nothing," John pointed a finger at Sherlock, "you say is going to convince me to do otherwise."  
  
Sherlock appeared to think this over, actually trying to come up with ideas to keep John at Baker Street. John stood and let him; and was surprised when Sherlock opened his mouth to proclaim confidently, "You're safer here. Baker Street is the safest place you can be. Obviously you should stay here. And," he trailed off then continued just a touch slower, "your sister can as well."  
  
That was a difficult concession for Sherlock seeing how little Sherlock and Harry liked each other, despite them having never met. John appreciated Sherlock offering, he really did. But Sherlock would be safer here on his own and away from John while John and Harry holed up at her place. John refused to put anyone in needless danger. Especially Sherlock.  
  
"Thanks Sherlock, really," John told him warmly, smiling a little. "But I'm going over to Harry's, and you need to stay here. It'll just be a few days then I'll be back. The days will fly by before you know it." He clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder for a moment then let his arm fall. "See you later."  
  
Sherlock waited until John was on the second stair from the bottom then he called, "Look after yourself, John."  
  
John turned back once he was on solid footing in the entryway. He raised a hand to Sherlock and promised, "See you in a few days." Then John turned again and walked to the front door, stepping out onto the pavement.  
  
~~  
  
As soon as the door closed behind John, Sherlock spun on his heel and raced back into the living room. The paper was still sitting abandoned on the table where they'd left it, so Sherlock went and picked it up.  
  
He started scanning through the articles, finding page after page of nothing. Nothing relevant to what was happening with John.  Then finally, on the last page of the news section, a place he rarely looked, was the article he was looking for and that had so upset John.  
  
It was under the local news on the page facing the obituaries and in its entirety was barely two paragraphs of text squeezed to fit into the space. Most people would have overlooked it, but John was very thorough in his daily routine of reading the paper.  
  
It took Sherlock barely a minute to read through the article, reading about the death that had befallen one of John's old friends. According to the writer the police had ruled it as an accidental overdose. The man had been acting strangely, paranoid according to one close friend, and believed someone was after him. Among his friends it was a well-known secret he was a frequent drug user; therefore the conclusion was he had taken some to calm down but had accidentally taken too much. It was a sad and avoidable fate but it had been the man's own doing.  
  
Sherlock ignored the last few lines about a memorial fund and date of the funeral. Still holding onto the paper he dropped down on the sofa and started to think everything over.  
  
The name of the supposed suicide overdose victim was Mark, the same name of the person who had left the comment on John's blog. It was obvious now John had really known him seeing how familiarily they addressed each other and the way John had reacted so severely to news of his death.  
  
John had also received a call from a ‘Chris,' another old friend evidence suggested, who had also mentioned danger and someone coming after them. He'd even warned John to be careful and watch himself. Yet afterwards John had pretended not to be alarmed but rung his sister right away.  
  
So not only were John, ‘Chris', and ‘Mark' targets, but also Harry. And someone, or some _ones_ , was after the four of them. One of the four had already turned up dead by supposedly his own hand, but likely the police had missed something obvious as they often did. And if the murderer continued the same way, ‘Chris' would soon or possibly already be found dead as well.  
  
Chris was only important because he was important to John and possibly the next victim. But Sherlock would do absolutely everything in his power to stop John befalling the same fate.  
  
The article mentioned the findings of the police, and likely whoever had examined the body, but hadn't divulged the specific officer in charge of the case.  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes and pulled his phone from his pocket. He'd been unable to find anything from his previous research, and he'd already learned everything he could from the article. The place to start investigating this time was with the police.  
  
Unlocking his mobile Sherlock opened his contact list and scrolled down to Lestrade's name. He pressed ‘call' then held the phone to his ear.  
  
As soon as the phone clicked over but before Lestrade could speak, Sherlock greeted, "Detective Inspector."  
  
"Sherlock," Lestrade greeted with a quiet groan. He didn't sound very excited to hear from Sherlock, and there was a tired edge to his voice that always appeared when he went days without sleep. "Listen Sherlock, I don't have anything for you. I promise I'll contact you as soon as I need you. But right now we're busy with something else."  
  
"I'm not calling for a  _case_ , Lestrade," Sherlock said dismissively. "I need you to look into something for me."  
  
Sherlock waited patiently through the silence as Lestrade considered. "You, want me to do you a favor?" He finally asked, sounding astonished.  
  
"I suppose it could be considered a favor," Sherlock said slowly. "After all I've done to help you solve cases, I think you owe me."  
  
"Maybe," Lestrade agreed slowly. "But it really depends on what you're asking for. Nothing illegal. At all."  
  
Of course Lestrade felt compelled to say that as a Detective Inspector. He needed to feel he was upholding the law. But Lestrade would still likely agree to help him. "I need you to send me details about a case the police are looking into. And give me the name of the officer in charge."  
  
"Sherlock, I can't just hand over details about any one case that interests you. I'm not technically supposed to even let you help on the cases I do call you in for." Lestrade hissed over the speaker at him. As if his superiors were bothering to listen in on this conversation.  
  
"Relax Lestrade, I'm not going to make you do anything illegal," Sherlock reassured calmly as he leaned over to see the paper better. "There's a two paragraph article on the last page of the paper today. An overdose staged as a suicide of a man by the name of Mark… Webber."  
  
"Doesn't sound like one you'd be interested in," Lestrade said over the sound of the keys on his ancient keyboard clacking. "Too boring for you. What caught your eye?"  
  
Sherlock hummed quietly to himself. "The man was a friend of John's; a rather close one considering how upset John became at the news."  
  
"Christ; poor man. Tell him I'm sorry, no one should find out like that," Lestrade offered his condolences like the good man he was.  
  
Sherlock didn't completely understand how it had happened, but Lestrade and John had become close. Well-acquainted enough to go out for drinks every week or so and talk about… whatever ‘mates' talked about over alcohol.  
  
"Here we are," Lestrade announced after a few clicks of his mouse. "It was a local case, nothing to do with us. The forensics team found drugs stashed around his flat, and a used needle near his body. There were threatening notes on slips of paper on his coffee table, and it looked like he'd gone to extreme lengths to booby trap all the entrances to his flat. Seems like he was afraid of someone getting in."  
  
"Obviously whoever sent him those notes was a serious threat," Sherlock mused, tapping his fingers together. "Or so the man believed. What else did the team find?"  
  
"Mm, not much," Lestrade admitted, pausing as he read through the rest of the report. "No sign of any intruder or anyone else in the flat. The officer ruled it a suicide between that and the drugs."  
  
"Idiot," Sherlock exhaled on a huff. "They even saw the notes but dismissed them over the more obvious presence of the drugs. The officer was a complete imbecile; he saw what he wanted to."  
  
"So it wasn't a suicide then? What do you think really happened?" Lestrade asked with the same resigned eagerness he used just before Sherlock explained everything and tied up the case neatly for him. Sherlock could picture the drooped shoulders and him rubbing at his forehead.  
  
"The writer of the notes found him and followed through on the threats. He killed the man but was smart and knew enough about his victim to stage it as an overdose. The police would see it as a desperate act of a desperate man, driven to suicide by his paranoia and looming death. They wouldn't look any closer." After his lengthy, rushed explanation Sherlock took a breath then admitted, "This one's smart Lestrade."  
  
"Wonderful, that's just what I wanted to hear," the Detective Inspector said with a definite lack of enthusiasm. "Do you think this is just a one-off or is this the start of serial killings?"  
  
Sherlock thought about it for several seconds but only came up lacking. Not enough evidence. "The only way to answer that question is to figure out if the person sent any other threatening notes. It's possible he has other victims planned. You need to find and secure any potential victims."  
  
There was something nagging at him, a snatch of overheard conversation he needed to remember. An important point about threats, and victims…  
  
Conversation; calls; phones…  _John._  
  
"Lestrade, can you look up John's call history on his mobile?" Sherlock asked eagerly; he knew he was on to something.  
  
"Can't you look for yourself? You've borrowed John's mobile enough times. Get it and look at it on your own," Lestrade said crossly, making Sherlock wonder what other tall tales John had been telling the Detective Inspector.  
  
"John's left for his sisters," Sherlock said not at all sulkily. "He thought it better if he was with her."  
  
"Right, so it wasn't because you two had a fight," Lestrade commented rather sarcastically, and needlessly, Sherlock thought.  
  
"Will you look it up or not?" Sherlock snapped.  
  
"Sorry, no," Lestrade answered firmly. "I can't just look at someone's phone records that easily, Sherlock. And I also don't want to invade John's privacy like that. But, I will let you ask for something else."  
  
"But Lestrade-" Sherlock started to protest, sure he could make the man see things his way, see how important this was.  
  
"No Sherlock," Lestrade said firmly again. "What else can I do for you?"  
  
There was one other thing Sherlock could think of where Lestrade's access to police records would be helpful. "Search in your records for these two names together: John Watson and Mark Webber. You may have to extend your search back a decade or two ago."  
  
" _Decade_?" Lestrade protested over the clacking sound of his keyboard. "I'm not sure we have records for most cases from that long ago."  
  
"Just look, Lestrade," Sherlock insisted impatiently. "You need to find something that links the two men together. There might also be record of a ‘Chris' something as well. Seeing how aggressive the threats were, and now you have a confirmed death, its likely they were involved in a police case together. Something violent or important."  
  
That forgotten tidbit of information was nagging at him again. He had read something about John, a Mark, and a Chris, being involved in something. Not anything recently, but when they were young… as children.  
  
" _Oh_ ," Sherlock breathed as he finally made the connection between the threats, murder, and police case with the old articles and photographs he'd found in the box in John's room. It really shouldn't have taken him so long, but he had only remembered the mention of John's name in the article not the two other boys. "The criminal ring."  
  
Lestrade spoke in his ear again, "This might be something. They didn't keep the best records decades ago, most of its still on paper, but something did come up with the three names. Looks like back when they were kids they were playing around and happened on a crime ring in the middle of a deal. They helped the police arrest most of the ring and identified them so the police could sentence them. The boys were hailed as local heroes." Several more clicks of his mouse, "that's about it, there's not much more here."  
  
"There's your link between the three boys, Detective Inspector," Sherlock advised, standing up and walking across the room. "They were all part of taking down the criminals. And now two decades later someone involved is coming after the three of tem, bent on revenge. They're not having much trouble finding and hunting down their intended victims. They've waited this long, so they're patient and very determined. The person we're looking for is personally invested in all of this; likely related to one of the criminals who was put away."  
  
"Or actually one of the criminals," Lestrade broke in abruptly, voice low and hurried. "I just looked up the names of the criminals put away. They were all given a double sentence for criminal activity plus more for possession and intent to sell. The ring leader had an even heavier sentence, so its definitely not him. But one of the others just recently appealed his sentence, and he was given time off for good behavior. It doesn't say here, but its possible he was let out for his appeal."  
  
"And allowed to roam the streets with the rest of the public unaware," Sherlock commented disgustedly. "The brilliance of our justice system. A criminal is free to threaten good citizens just because he knows enough to question and be a model prisoner."  
  
"I don't like it either, Sherlock," Lestrade told him, his chair squeaking as he leaned back. "I'm just telling you what the report says. And apparently one of the criminals from the ring John and his friends locked away is out free in public. And while he's out, he's going after John and the other two boys. Well, the other one now."  
  
John had been right then, he was definitely in danger and from a very real threat; yet the idiot had decided to go to his sisters unprotected flat rather than holing up safely at Baker Street. Well now they knew just what the threat actually was, Sherlock could call John and tell him exactly what was happening and how he was in danger. And John would see that he needed to come back to Baker Street where Sherlock could help keep him safe; and maybe, if he had to, John could bring his sister along.  
  
"See if you can find where this criminal is now, and where he's gone recently. I'm going to call John," Sherlock instructed then he hung up on the Detective Inspector before he wasted any more time.  
  
He returned to the contacts list in his mobile and selected John's name this time. The call connected and began to ring as Sherlock brought the phone to his ear. Sherlock waited for John to pick up, listening to it ring again and again.  
  
Doubt crept into his mind for a very brief second, making him wonder if John would even answer. John had left Baker Street on good terms, even joking with him. But what if John was too preoccupied with his sister to answer. Or if he was too late and something had happened to John?  
  
Then someone picked up and John answered, his voice dripping with exhaustion, "Hello? Sherlock, what's wrong?"  
  
"You need to come back to Baker Street." Sherlock commanded as evenly as he could.  
  
"What? No," John argued over a laugh. "I know you're worried about me, but I'm fine Sherlock. I'm happy you called me, I really am. But I'm not coming back to Baker Street."  
  
Sherlock sighed loudly, running a hand through his hair. John could be so  _stubborn_  sometimes. "You're at your sisters already; How is that going?"  
  
"Wonderful," John said too quickly then sighed. "At least she's not drinking anymore like she promised. But we don't get on very well usually, and right now we're both too worked up. Over whatever this threat is."  
  
"It is real and very dangerous, John," Sherlock told him in his most convincing way. "Lestrade did some research when I called him. He found the case linking you and the dead man in the Yards old archive files. We both think that is why the three of you are being threatened and hunted. Someone connected with what happened is the one after you and your sister. They're seeking revenge on the people who put them in prison."  
  
"What? That's not possible, Sherlock. I-" John abruptly stopped his protests and was silent for several long seconds. When he spoke again John was whispering loudly. "You know I don't like talking about this Sherlock. I've done my best to forget it all. But I  _do_ know that all of them are still in prison and will be for a very long time."  
  
"I regret to have to tell you this, John, but not all the criminals are still locked away," Sherlock said regretful and honest. He didn't like putting John in danger or him being in danger. But John was practical and didn't like not knowing things. And with the two of them working on this together they could protect each other and finish this themselves. Preferably with no more bodies. "Lestrade found out one was released early on appeal and for good behavior. He has an officer shadowing him but he's free to roam the city."  
  
"That's ridiculous!" John hissed angrily through the phone. "They should never be released at all. The police said they had a completely solid case!"  
  
"Obviously not. Or not for this criminal in particular," Sherlock replied darkly. "That's why you have to come back to Baker Street. You'll be safer here and you'll be protected."  
  
"I already told you Sherlock-"  
  
"Your sisters isn't  _safe_  John. There isn't any perfect way to secure her building, and I doubt there's enough security. We don't have enough eyes to watch for anyone suspicious and there's too many people around," Sherlock insisted all in a rush, trying to convince John to just  _see_. "It's safe here, we can control everything we need to."  
  
"Sherlock, I know you're worried about me and I appreciate that, I really do. But I'm perfectly safe here. I know what I'm doing," John insisted at a normal level. But Sherlock was glad to hear he didn't sound quite as convinced.  
  
"I'm perfectly confident in your abilities, John. I know you know what you're doing," Sherlock reassured because he really did. He didn't have confidence in anyone more than in John. "But your sisters isn't the right place to do this, John. If we are going to protect you and your sister it's best to do it somewhere we're both familiar with. There's nowhere either of us know as well as Baker Street. We can control the situation here. Especially if we need to draw the person out."  
  
"You think we'll need to draw the person out? I thought we were just staying safe and keeping our heads down." John inquired, sounding confused but intrigued.  
  
"In theory yes," Sherlock said. "Lestrade told me he would try to locate him, find out where he's been and what he's been doing. And as police he can put out a search. But even if we do find where they are that doesn't necessarily mean the police can take them in. Technicalities and all. So we may need to have to draw the person out, force them to come after you."  
  
"What? Sherlock-"  
  
"That's why we need to do this here, John. Baker Street is safe and the perfect place to make this happen."  Sherlock said, trying to convince him. "Come back here and we can plan this all out. And, I suppose, your sister can come with us."  
  
"Oh thanks," John replied with an easy laugh. "Harry will love to hear that."  
  
Sherlock straightened quickly. "You're coming back then?"  
  
John sighed noisily, the sound echoing over the speaker. "I agree that Baker Street would be safer than my sisters place. And you have the right idea about what we should do, but I'm not putting Mrs. Hudson in danger. She has nothing to do with this and I refuse to let her be hurt because of me."  
  
Sherlock realized guiltily he hadn't even thought about Mrs. Hudson in all of this. He was just as adamant about not putting her in danger as John was. Which meant John was right, they couldn't do this in Baker Street. But Harry's place wasn't safe either. So what place could they possibly use that would work as well as Baker Street?  
  
There was one obvious place that suited their needs, but Sherlock didn't want to use it unless they absolutely had to. But the longer he tried to think of anywhere else they could go, it seemed more like the only option available to them.  
  
"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John yelled and finally Sherlock snapped back to the present to answer, "What?"  
  
"I said, do you have any other ideas?" John said with a tone that meant he'd had to repeat himself more than once.  
  
"Possibly one, at least," Sherlock replied, a little distracted with planning how he could pull this off. "You're at your sisters still?"  
  
"Yes, we're both inhabiting the same place at least. We haven't managed to stay in the same room for more than an hour yet." John said a little tiredly. He didn't like dealing with his sister more than he had to and this was probably why. Sherlock thought that both he and John weren't very good at relations with their siblings.  
  
"Excellent, stay there. I'll be over as soon as I can," Sherlock said, standing up and walking over to where he'd left his coat by the door. "Make sure both you and your sister are ready. But don't bring anything you don't absolutely need, we don't need any excess baggage."  
  
"So you've thought of somewhere?" John asked sounding hopeful. "Where did you think of?"  
  
"Just be ready, John," Sherlock said then hung up on whatever John would say next. He pulled on his coat and opened a new text message to Lestrade.  
  
 _John, his sister, and I are going to go stay somewhere. I'll text you the address later. SH._  
  
As he slid his phone back into his pocket it chimed with what was obviously a confused reply from Lestrade. Sherlock ignored it, turning towards his room to collect only the essentials of what he'd need.  
  
  
5.  
  
Sherlock stepped out the front door of Baker Street and walked towards the road, raising his hand to flag down a cab.  
  
The first one he saw coming slowed and pulled over to the curb right in front of him. Sherlock walked up to it and pulled open the back door. He slid in, gave the cabbie the address of John's sisters place, and sat back as the vehicle pulled into traffic.  
  
It was a rather short journey to John's sisters. As soon as the cab slowed and came to a stop in front of John's sisters building, Sherlock pushed open the door.  
  
He told the cabbie to wait as he climbed out of the cab; then crossed the pavement to the buildings front entrance. As he walked Sherlock glanced around for any suspicious characters, but there were only ordinary pedestrians going about daily routines. Perhaps the free-roaming criminal hadn't found John's sisters residence yet.  
  
Sherlock leaned on the doorbell, pressing it three times in quick succession. He mentally counted as a minute went by and pressed it three times again.  
  
Another minute passed and Sherlock was about to press the bell again when he heard the lock being undone on the other side of the door. He rocked on his heels and impatiently waited for the knob to turn and the door open wide.  
  
John's sister stood on the other side, one hand still on the doorknob. She blinked at him then shifted her weight as she relaxed. "Oh, it's you."  
  
"Hello Harriet," Sherlock greeted as pleasantly as he could manage without forcing a smile. "Where is John?"  
  
"Upstairs, packing." She told him, starting a habit of speaking in as few words as possible. "He wouldn't tell me where you're taking us."  
  
"He doesn't know," Sherlock said. He stood on the step waiting for her to invite him in, or for her to call John down.  
  
But seconds passed and she did neither. So they were left standing in silence avoiding any conversation at all.  
  
Finally, finally, John's voice called down from above, "Harry? I'm almost done. I haven't heard from Sherlock but he should be here soon."  
  
"He's already here!" Harriet called over her shoulder without taking her eyes off of Sherlock.  
  
"What?" John appeared at the top of the stairs holding an overnight bag in each hand. "Sherlock," he exclaimed looking surprised to see him. "You're here."  
  
"Yes, I am," Sherlock replied dryly. He glanced at the bags in John's hands. "Are you ready? We should be going."  
  
"You just got here," Harriet interjected, frowning at him. "What's the rush?"  
  
Sherlock glanced briefly at her. "A severe lack of time afforded to us," he told her briskly before returning his gaze to John. "We need to leave."  
  
"All right." John agreed. He started coming down the stairs, struggling a little carrying the bags.  
  
Sherlock stepped over the threshold and met John halfway up the stairs. He took one of the bags, the one he judged to be John's, then walked with John back down to Harriet.  
  
"You left the cab waiting?" Harriet asked, looking out at the cab sitting by the curb.  
  
"Easier than waving down another one," John commented, setting the bag down by his feet with a soft thud. "At least for us common folk," he added with a small smile at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock met his smile with one of his own. "Indeed."  
  
He adjusted his grip on the bag he was holding and stepped towards the door. "We'll be in the cab if you wish to lock up, Harriet."  
  
"Oh, yeah. Sure," John's sister agreed, slipping a hand into one pocket.  
  
Sherlock turned and walked to the door then back outside. With a quick sideways glance he saw John just a step behind him, carrying the other bag.  
  
John followed him to the cab and pulled the back door open before Sherlock could. "Thanks for this, Sherlock. I mean it."  
  
"Of course," Sherlock replied, keeping his voice even. John didn't really have to thank him for this, he would have done it anyway. But… the thanks was appreciated.  
  
John took the bag from him and put it in the back of the cab. "But you could call her Harry, you know."  
  
"Harriet is just as excellent a name as Harry," Sherlock rejoined. "It also has the added benefit of being a distinctly feminine name."  
  
John laughed, obviously understanding Sherlock's allusion to when he'd mistaken John's sister for his brother. "True. And maybe also because it annoys her?"  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock said as John put the second bag next to the first inside the cab.  
  
Harriet came over to them, a purse slung over her shoulder and her keys jangling from her hand. "Right, we all ready?"  
  
"I think so now, yes," Sherlock replied. He looked over at John who nodded at him.  
  
"Great," Harriet said; then she walked between them and climbed into the cab first.  
  
Sherlock and John shared a look then John smiled slightly at him and climbed inside after his sister.  
  
As he did Sherlock cast a quick glance up and down the pavement. Seeing nothing, he followed them in and slammed the door shut.  
  
He leaned forward, gave the address to the cabbie then sat back. Sherlock glanced over at John and his sister. John was watching him with a curious, expectant look on his face but Harriet was pressed against the side of the cab staring out the window.  
  
Sherlock remained silent and waited for John to speak since it was inevitable John would give in to his curiosity and ask the question on his mind. It only took a few lights and turns before John finally cleared his throat and asked, "Well, where are we going?"  
  
"Somewhere safe. Somewhere you'll be protected but where we can also defend ourselves if need be." Sherlock answered, being purposefully vague despite how he knew John didn't like it.  
  
John was nodding slowly. "All right. But not Baker Street?"  
  
"No, not Baker Street," Sherlock confirmed.  
  
That appeared to be enough for John. He nodded once again then sat back in his seat, settling in for the ride.  
  
They passed the rest of the time in silence, despite it not being an overly long drive. And the cabbie was actually taking a rather straightforward route to the address.  
  
Before long they were pulling up outside a large multi-story brick house with an iron fence and good sized yard in front. As soon as the cab stopped Sherlock climbed out then moved aside so John and Harriet could get out to stand on the pavement next to him. While John pulled the two bags from where they'd been on the floor, Sherlock flipped the collar of his coat up and pulled out his wallet. He paid the cabbie, adding a little extra for getting them here so quickly, then pushed the back door closed.  
The cabbie thanked him and sped off down the street. Sherlock dropped his wallet back into his pocket and turned to John and Harriet.

  
Harriet was staring at the house, eyes wide and her mouth gaping a little. John had the two bags sitting at his feet and was looking at the house with his head tilted to the side, thoughtful.  
  
"Shall we go in?" Sherlock suggested, reaching over to pick up both bags. He carried them and walked over to the iron gate to the house, certain John and Harriet were following.  
  
Sherlock had to set one of the bags down to get to the keys he'd put in his pocket before leaving Baker Street. He singled out the one for the front gate and slid it in, turning it in the lock. The gate unlocked with a rather loud metal ‘clunk.' Apparently no one had been here very recently.  
  
He pulled the key out again and gently pushed the gate open. It swung easily on its hinges, revealing the short paved walk to the front door. The place was rather picturesque Sherlock admitted grudgingly. It had been well chosen.  
  
Sherlock went to pick the bag up again, only to realize it was gone. He looked up and over to see John had the bag now slung over his shoulder.  
  
John smiled what was probably supposed to be reassuringly then nodded his head at the house.  
  
Sherlock nodded, adjusted the bag on his shoulder, and started down the walk. He heard John and Harriet's footsteps following behind him and a metal clang as the gate was shut.  
  
Their small procession continued to the front door then stopped in a small group on the step. Sherlock took the keys out again and selected the one for the front door. The system for this door was more complicated, with one key for the deadbolt and one for the lock itself.  
  
He started with the key for the deadbolt, sliding it in and turning it until he heard the lock click. Then Sherlock picked the key for the lock and slid it in, gripping the knob with his other hand. As soon as he undid the lock Sherlock turned the knob and pushed open the door.  
  
A loud electronic beeping echoed around them, high and extremely annoying.  
  
"Make yourselves comfortable," Sherlock told John and Harriet over the noise. "I'll be right back." He set down the bag then went off to disable the alarm.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last part! (for now)

6.  
  
John and Harry stood close together in the extravagant entryway, staring at the sprawling space around them.  
  
Finally Harry spoke, whispering in the grandness of the room, "Seriously John? He has keys to a place like this and he's flatsharing with you?"  
  
John wasn't quite comfortable admitting that he'd been thinking nearly the same thing. "This isn't his, Harry. He's never mentioned it and I've never been here."  
  
Harry gave him a knowing look. "Doesn't mean it isn't his, John."  
  
"He'd never live in a place like this," John hissed back in Sherlock's defense. He couldn't picture Sherlock in a place like this. It was too… extravagant, for all of Sherlock's entitlement.  
  
"It's not Baker Street," Harry agreed, still staring around them.  
  
The awful beeping finally stopped with one last long sound and John breathed a sigh of relief. A few seconds later Sherlock reappeared from one of the doorways further down the hall.  
  
"A bit overly dramatic security measure, but effective," Sherlock commented as he walked towards them. "There also locks on every window, a separate system for the back door, cameras outside with no hidden areas, and the second storey is only accessible from the inside."  
  
"Just a bit dramatic," John agreed, amused. Then he realized in a rush as it was suddenly obvious, "This is Mycroft's place, isn't it?"  
  
Sherlock smiled at him, obviously proud that John had worked it out. "Yes. One of his safe houses. That's why I thought this place would work well for our requirements. For once Mycroft's paranoia and dramatic security measures will come in handy."  
  
"Mycroft?" Harry asked, her attention refocused from gaping at the house around them. "Who's Mycroft?"  
  
"My brother." Sherlock said shortly with all the scorn he usually added when talking about his brother. He quickly turned on his heel and started walking further into the house. "I may as well show you around seeing as its ridiculously easy to get lost in this place. I don't know how Mycroft stands it."  
  
"Does he come here a lot then? Your brother?" Harry asked from next to John as they followed Sherlock down the hallway.  
  
"Not very often, no. He prefers to stay at his primary residence," Sherlock answered, leading them into the kitchen in the back of the house.  
  
"So this is usually empty?" John asked, looking around. "Seems like a shame."  
  
"Mm," Sherlock said, not really answering. He stepped into the kitchen, shoes squeaking a little on the linoleum floor. "There should be a kettle somewhere if you want to make tea John."  
  
"You're going to make John make tea?" Harry asked incredulously, eyes boring into the back of Sherlock's head.  
  
Sherlock turned his head a little to look at her as he rounded the center island. "I'm not going to make your brother do anything. John finds the act of making tea relaxing, and also enjoys drinking it, so I thought I would point out the existence of a kettle in this kitchen."  
  
John did his very best not to grin outright at Sherlock. It was such a Sherlock thing to say and showed just how well Sherlock knew him and thought about his well-being. Even with the added downside of annoying his sister. And Sherlock was right, he did find making tea relaxing.  
  
"I'll find it for us. There's probably some tea somewhere too," John announced, walking forward. He went around the island the opposite way from Sherlock and started searching the cupboards near the stove.  
  
Sherlock opened one of the upper cupboards and a triumphant sound escaped his lips. "I found the tea," he said, taking down two different boxes of tea.  
  
"Great. I'm sure the kettle's somewhere," John replied and resumed his search of the cupboards for the elusive kettle. He glanced over at Harry who was leaning against the wall near the door, watching them with a frown.  
  
He finally found the kettle down with the pots and pans. John pulled it out and walked over to the sink. He turned on the water and waited as the kettle filled.  
  
"If you're all right with the tea, I have a call I need to make," Sherlock said, pulling his mobile from his pocket and flipped it in his hand.  
  
John nodded his permission. "We'll be all right. The tea will be ready when you come back," he promised.  
  
"Excellent," Sherlock replied with a smile. He turned and walked back around the island to the doorway where Harry was still hovering. Sherlock nodded at her then stepped out into the hallway.  
  
~~  
  
Sherlock went down the hallway until he was near the front door. He unlocked his mobile and scrolled down to his brothers number. After a quick glance back towards the kitchen he selected the number and raised it to his ear.  
  
The phone rang twice before it clicked over and Mycroft answered, "Sherlock. How wonderful to hear from you."  
  
"Mycroft," Sherlock greeted in the same tone. "How necessary to talk to you."  
  
"I expect you're the reason I just received a call from my security about an alarm going off in one of my safe houses?" Mycroft asked sounding completely calm.  
  
"Yes, John and Harriet needed somewhere to stay. I didn't think you would mind us using this place considering you're never here." Sherlock answered. "You don't mind do you?"  
  
"Not at all. Not for Doctor Watson and his sister." Mycroft said. "Is Baker Street not safe? My cameras haven't caught any suspicious activity or anything out of the ordinary."  
  
"Have you been in contact with the Detective Inspector?" Sherlock asked instead of answering his brothers question.  
  
"Lestrade? No, not recently. Is there something I need to know about Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, his voice only just betraying his worry.  
  
"John and his sister are in danger. There's a violent criminal coming after them. They've both already received threats." Sherlock explained. He didn't like bringing Mycroft in on this, but if he wanted to keep John, and his sister, safe then Mycroft could be of help.  
  
"Do you know who it is exactly?" Mycroft asked, sounding like he was paying very close attention now. "I can review the footage from Baker Street, and send someone to watch in front of the safe house."  
  
"That would be appreciated," Sherlock replied between gritted teeth. He didn't have to like admitting he needed Mycroft's help. "Lestrade can send you a picture of what the person looks like. See if you recognize him on any footage from Baker Street, or see any sign of anyone following John. I've reset the security system here, and everything is locked. We'll know if anyone gets in."  
  
"All right, I'll let you know," Mycroft agreed and Sherlock heard him start typing. "But Sherlock, you know you can't stay there indefinitely. Doctor Watson and his sister can't hide forever."  
  
"I know that Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "I have a plan."  
  
"Do you?" Mycroft asked curiously.  
  
Sherlock let the silence reign for nearly a minute before he admitted grudgingly, "I'm working on one."  
  
"Will Doctor Watson and his sister mind you're using them as bait for your trap?" Mycroft asked him knowingly. "I expect Doctor Watson won't be very happy."  
  
"It's true though," Sherlock said, rubbing at his head in frustration. "They can't hide forever. Wouldn't it be better if we drew the person out now and get everything over with right away?"  
  
"Probably, yes. But I would speak with Doctor Watson about it first," Mycroft suggested, and Sherlock decided it was good advice he should probably actually take.  
  
"All right. Talk with Lestrade and ask him to have officers ready in case we need them." Sherlock requested. "It's possible they followed me from Baker Street and then all of us from Harriet's house. We might not have long."  
  
"I think you might be right," Mycroft agreed, his voice taking on a worried note. "I've been looking through the footage from Baker Street; and unless I'm mistaken, the same car has been sitting outside of Two Hundred and Twenty One B for several days."  
  
Sherlock quickly went into the front sitting room and glanced out at the street through the curtains on the window. "What kind of car?" He asked, glancing up and down the street at the few cars parked along the road.  
  
"Black, the license plate is illegible from any angle I have." Mycroft described as he watched the footage. "It appears to be a car almost identical to the ones I frequently use."  
  
"Ah yes, your black cars for all your necessary kidnapping purposes," Sherlock quipped. Then he fell quiet, looking carefully out the window at a black car a few houses down he could only see the front of.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Have you already sent someone to watch the house?" Sherlock asked quickly, worrying as his heart started beating faster.  
  
"I've contacted someone yes, but they shouldn't have arrived yet. Why?" Mycroft asked, sounding slightly alarmed without giving into panic.  
  
"There's a car several houses down on the other side of the road. It's too far away to tell if anyone's inside but I didn't see it when we arrived." Sherlock told his brother as he moved to the  next window to see if it offered a better view of the car.  
  
A tinny chime came from the other end of the phone. "Ah, Lestrade's just sent me a picture of the suspect. Forwarding it to you now."  
  
Sherlock removed the phone from his ear and held it out to where he could look at the screen. A slightly grainy picture of a not very nice looking man appeared. "That's the suspect, the criminal after John and Harriet? He doesn't look pleasant."  
  
"According to Lestrade, yes. And be careful Sherlock, he has a rather violent history. Including assault and death threats." Mycroft warned, acting his part as an older brother. "Confront him with great caution."  
  
"Don't worry Mycroft," Sherlock replied airily. "John has his gun. And we're both perfectly capable of defending ourselves."  
  
"Despite what you might think, that doesn't alter my worry at all," Mycroft told him seriously. "Be careful Sherlock, promise."  
  
"Yes, yes Mycroft. Don't forget to have Lestrade's and your men ready. I'll set the system so there's only way to enter," Sherlock reassured and reminded his brother. "We'll be fine. John and I know what we're doing."  
  
"I'm sure you do," Mycroft agreed. "All the same."  
  
Then, having the last word, Mycroft rung off.  
  
Sherlocked sighed and ended the call. He dropped the phone back into his pocket and went off to reset Mycroft's high-end security system. After he fiddled with it and experimented a little, it ended up being rather simple to set the system so entrance was only allowed through the front door. All the other windows, and the back door, were permanently locked.  
  
Satisfied, Sherlock returned to the sitting room in the front of the house. He glanced out of the window again, making sure he wouldn't be seen. The black car was still sitting there, and there was no sign of anyone nearby. In fact the street and pavement was strangely absent of people.  
  
It seemed like they would find themselves in danger sooner rather than later then.  
  
Sherlock pulled the curtain closed again and rushed out of the room and back along the hallway. He stepped into the kitchen just as John was pouring steaming water into three mugs.  
  
Harriet looked up first, greeting him with a nod. Then she quickly frowned looking concerned. "Is something wrong?"  
  
"John, do you have your gun on you?" Sherlock asked, not going any further inside than the doorway.  
  
John turned and set the kettle back on top of the stove. "Of course, I always do." He looked Sherlock over carefully. "What is it? What's wrong?"  
  
"It's probably nothing," Sherlock said trying to sound as reassuring as possible. "But there's a car out on the road that's only been there for as long as we've been inside. It's several houses down so I can't see very well, but Mycroft said there's been a similar car on Baker Street."  
  
"So we could have been followed." John realized on a low breath. "You could have been followed when you came to pick us up. They saw you leaving Baker Street and knew you could lead them to us."  
  
"You mean the person after us could be outside?" Harriet said, not quite yelling. "We're locked in here and they're outside just waiting to burst in and kill us?"  
  
"No one's getting killed today Harry," John reassured his sister, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. It seemed to help since her breathing slowed. "I have my gun and Sherlock and I can both defend ourselves."  
  
Harriet turned to look irritably at him. "So what am I supposed to do while you two brave men risk your lives to protect all of us?" She asked, sarcasm evident in her voice. A family trait then. "Hide in the closet and wait?"  
  
"Unless you want to act as bait, likely yes." Sherlock said before John could answer.  
  
"Sherlock!" John scolded, glaring at him. Obviously Sherlock had said the wrong thing again.  
  
"No, Harry, of course you don't have to hide in the closet," John reassured his sister, turning to her. "Just don't get in the way though, all right? Stay back and let us handle things."  
  
Harriet crossed her arms across her chest. "I'm not a damsel in distress," she grumbled.  
  
John rolled his eyes. "You are anything but a damsel in distress, Harry. I'm just trying to keep you safe."  
  
Harriet appeared to think this over for a few seconds before conceding, "Fine. I'll stay out of your way."  
  
"Thanks," John said, sounding actually grateful.  
  
There was a sound like thunder from the front of the house as the front door was slammed open, banging and recoiling against the wall of the entryway. Immediately the alarm system starting beeping rapidly, protesting the front door being open.  
  
"We need to turn the alarm off!" John shouted over the noise, pressing one hand against his ear.  
  
"No, it'll disorient the intruder and if we don't turn it off security will be notified and consequently Mycroft as well." Sherlock told him, raising his voice as well. "We just need to keep the intruder occupied and disarm them until Lestrade and Mycroft's men arrive to arrest them."  
  
"And how are we supposed to do that?" Harriet demanded, leaning forward so she could hear better even as she plugged her ears.  
  
"Johnny!" A man's voice, surprisingly light but still unhinged sounding, called down the hall from near the front door. "Where are you?" He sing-songed.  
  
Sherlock and John both looked towards the front door. John took several steps towards the doorway to the hall but didn't peek around it. He reached back and pulled his shirt up, revealing the gun he'd tucked into his waistband.  
  
"What are you doing?" Harriet hissed at her brother, pressing herself against the cupboard.  
  
He glanced over at her and held a finger to his lips to quiet her. Then John looked over at Sherlock, silently asking his permission and to check on him. It was something one or the other of them always did when they were on stakeouts like this and about to apprehend a suspect. Sherlock was constantly amazed by just how well the two of them worked together. Things went so much better when Sherlock didn't try to do things himself.  
  
Sherlock nodded back at John and waved him forward. Unlike John he didn't have a weapon on him, but he could easily make a satisfactory weapon from several objects at hand in the kitchen. He specifically eyed the small drawer between the stove and the pantry cupboard.

 

7.  
  
"Come on out Johnny!" The man called again, closer this time. "And where is little Harriet? Come out so I can see you!"  
  
John glanced one last time first at Harry then Sherlock, his gun now in his hand and the safety off. Then he slid around the doorway, keeping his back to the wall and brought up his gun to point it at the man standing in the middle of the hallway.   
  
John pressed himself into the corner where the doorway met the wall and eyed up the other man. The man was holding a gun in his right hand, not very expertly but John wasn't being critical when it was pointing at him. He was dressed casually in jeans and a sweatshirt, the hood pulled up over his head probably in an attempt to hide his face. The sunglasses he was wearing even indoors also helped. He still looked pretty threatening, especially with the gun.  
  
The man smiled crookedly at him, and greeted, "There you are Johnny. Surprised to see me?"  
  
"Not really since you followed us here." John replied calmly. If the man thought he would turn into a shaking mess just because he had a gun pointing at him, he was sorely mistaken. "I'm just surprised to see you so soon. I thought you'd wait to come after us. But here you are, already barging in and threatening us."  
  
A shadow passed across the man's face and he thrust the gun forward towards John. "I waited long enough. I spent year after year in that awful place just waiting until I was free and I could come after you. All of you ruined my life. Just because you happened to find us we were all put away and you boys were such heroes. Heroes for putting away the mean, dirty criminals."  
  
"That's what happens to criminals, you're locked away behind bars where you belong," John barked angrily, letting all his anger funnel into his voice.  
  
"We didn't belong there!" The man shouted, advancing on John two more steps. He gestured wildly with the gun again. "You don't know what it was like! It was awful!"  
  
"You deserved it!" John shouted back, bringing up his other hand to steady his gun.  
  
The man smiled coldly at him. "What, you gonna shoot me Johnny?"  
  
"If he doesn't, I will," Sherlock promised as he moved from around the other side of the doorway to stand against the wall. He was hiding something behind his back but John couldn't tell exactly what.  
  
The man's confidence slipped for a second as he glanced over at Sherlock. "And who're you?"  
  
"A friend of John's," Sherlock answered calmly. "And also someone who would feel perfectly in their right shooting you."  
  
"You won't shoot me," the man said confidently, but he shifted the gun to point at Sherlock. "Neither of you will."  
  
  
"How sure of that are you?" Sherlock asked evenly, watching as John began to slowly move down the hallway toward the man, his back still against the wall.  
  
John nodded at Sherlock, silently indicating for Sherlock to keep the man's attention focused on him.  
  
Sherlock nodded in return and started talking again. "You really think you can shoot either of us? You may be a criminal but you're not a killer. You don't have the stomach for murder."  
  
From his closer vantage point John saw the man's mouth twist in a sharp smile. "I've already killed. I killed Mark, remember? He deserved to die, and it was such a slow death."  
  
"Yes, by overdose wasn't it? Pretty messy for an experienced murderer." Sherlock commented skeptically. "Not your best work. And it also means you didn't kill him; you just used a handy means of making him die. You didn't do it yourself."  
  
"I killed him! I got my revenge!" The man shouted, matching the level the alarm was still making.  
  
"If you say so," Sherlock replied still keeping his voice even, and smiling the superior smile that always annoyed John.  
  
By now John was nearly level with the man, standing behind him against the wall. After a reassuring nod from Sherlock John peeled away, his gun trained on the man's back.  
  
He took one slow step then another as Sherlock continued talking, criticizing the man's actions and motives in sentence after sentence while not giving the man any time or opening to respond. From the gleam in Sherlock's eyes John could tell he was enjoying it.  
  
John took one last step, silently shifting his weight from toe to hell until he was standing directly behind the man, bare inches from his back. John raised his arm, moving slowly as to not make any noise, and pressed the muzzle of his gun into the man's neck.  
  
"Drop your gun," John ordered, pressing harder.  
  
The man froze in place, his breath catching.  
  
"Drop. Your. Gun." John commanded. "Now."  
  
"Okay, okay," the man said, all confidence gone from his voice. He started lowering his arm, crouching down, and for a second John thought he might actually do as he was told.  
  
But then he was coming back up, turning around to face John his gun moving with him. John's gun slipped from the back of his neck and John had to readjust his aim. He was almost confident he could move faster and be pointing at the man before the gun was trained on himself again, but could he really?  
  
A gunshot rang out, echoing in the tight hallway. John instinctively ducked, still pointing his gun up in the general direction of the man.  
  
But the man gave a strangled yell, dropping the gun like it had shocked him. A second later the man collapsed to the floor himself, falling to his knees clutching at his arm.  
  
Now there was no immediate danger anymore John slowly rose to his feet, gun still trained on the man. He was gripping his right arm with his left hand, blood pooling under his fingers. So he'd been shot in his arm and the shock had made him drop his gun. But John hadn't fired his weapon, which meant…  
  
John looked over at Sherlock who somehow had a gun in his hand now, a gun that he had definitely not been holding before. "Thanks," John said, still a little shocked.  
  
Sherlock smiled at him. "No problem at all."  
  
John took a few steps so he could kick the intruder's gun away to where it wasn't within reach. He kept his gun on the intruder but was looking at Sherlock when there noise from by the open front door.  
  
John and Sherlock both turned and Harry slowly came over to stand off to one side. Just outside the front door Lestrade had arrived with two other men, all wearing bullet-proof vests with ‘Police' in large font and their guns up and ready.  
  
Lestrade declared "Police!" then advanced inside with his gun still at the ready… until he saw John and Sherlock standing in the hallway, and the man on the floor clutching his arm.  
  
Lestrade sighed and lowered his gun, holstering it again. "Never mind, put your guns away," Lestrade told the other two men with him who did as they were told, looking faintly surprised at the scene they'd stumbled on.  
  
Lestrade looked first at John, eyes pausing on the gun still in his hand, then over to Sherlock where he noticed that gun as well. Then the Detective Inspector shook his head and asked, addressing both of them, "Is this one of those times where I'll have to look the other way and pretend I didn't see anything?"  
  
John treated Lestrade to his best innocent smile. "I don't know what you mean, Detective Inspector. We were just defending ourselves."  
  
Sherlock was a bit more to the point. "No need to worry, Lestrade. Both guns are perfectly legal and have documentation. That one, however," he said, pointing at the gun the intruder had used, "likely does not."  
  
"Uh huh, I see," Lestrade said reasonably. "So let me guess what happened. You two were just visiting when this fellow barged in, pulled a gun on you, and started threatening you. So you decided to defend yourselves, and made the man drop his weapon by shooting him in the arm?"  
  
"Yeah, that's a pretty good summary of what happened actually," John agreed nodding.  
  
"All in self-defense, Detective Inspector, with no messy dead bodies for you to deal with." Sherlock added.  
  
"Well, thanks. I appreciate that," Lestrade told them as he walked over to the man still on the floor.   
  
He grabbed the intruders arm and pulled him up to his feet, ignoring the man's cry of pain. "You are under arrest. I think we should take a trip down to my office, have a little chat." Lestrade pulled out a pair of handcuffs and closed them around the man's wrist then twisted his other arm back to close it around the other wrist. "Come on," he said, turning the man around and pushing him towards the front door.  
  
"All in a days work, Detective Inspector," John called as Lestrade walked with the man towards the front door, one hand on his shoulder and the other around his wrists.  
  
"You owe me a beer Watson!" Lestrade called back and stepped outside and down onto the paved walk. One of the officers who'd been with him followed close behind.  
  
The other officer came over and used a gloved hand to pick up the intruders gun, dropping it inside an evidence bag he taken from his pocket. "Good work," he told Sherlock and John then turned and followed Lestrade.  
  
Once all the police were outside on the road by the police car, John turned to Sherlock and asked a question that had been nagging at him. "Where did you get that gun anyway? You didn't have it before."  
  
Sherlock smiled at him. "This is Mycroft's place, John. You really think he doesn't have weapons stored all over just in case something exactly like this happens?"  
  
"Well, I suppose not. He does seem paranoid like that," John agreed. He put the safety back on his gun and slid it into his waistband.  
  
"Exactly," Sherlock agreed.  
  
"Are all of your cases like this?" Harry asked from where she was still standing against the wall, out of the way.  
  
"Not always," John reassured her as he walked to her. "The bad guy usually doesn't give a speech like that. And someone doesn't always get shot."  
  
"And the police don't always arrive just in time," Sherlock added, following John.  
  
"Sherlock!" John scolded, shaking his head at him. John stopped in front of his sister and lightly gripped her shoulders. "Are you okay?"  
  
Harry nodded, obviously not looking over his shoulder at the small pool of blood on the carpet. "I'm fine," she said in a surprisingly strong voice given what she'd just witnessed. "But… it's all over now right? We're safe?"  
  
"We're safe," John promised, and gave in to the temptation to give her a hug. He squeezed her tightly around the shoulders and added, "Lestrade's a good man. He'll make sure that guy goes away for a very long time. And he'll make sure none of the others can ever get out either."  
  
"Good," Harry said strongly. John felt her arms snake around his waist and she squeezed once. "Then…"  
  
"Yeah?" John asked, pulling back a bit when she trailed off.  
  
Harry raised her head to meet his eyes. "Can we have that tea now?"  
  
John heard Sherlock laugh from somewhere over his shoulder. "Yeah, Harry," he said, feeling his face split with a smile. "We can have that tea now."

~~

fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the readers who commented on this at the sherlockmas community mentioned how not all questions were answered and much of John/Harry's past was left as a mystery. When my friend and I were brainstorming this we did actually plan most of that part out, the story just got away from me when I was writing it and I couldn't fit it in. So, hopefully, in the near future I will be posting an epilogue where that's all explained because I like what we came up with and I think it helps complete the story.
> 
> So, something to look forward to. ;)
> 
> Anyway, hope you all enjoyed!


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